The Anatomy of Hope, Week 4: Hands

Hebrews 10:23-25

Genesis 22:1-14

There are some stories that you don’t really want to know. Like William Styron’s story, Sophie’s Choice. 

Sophie was a Polish woman during the Second World War. She was sent to Auschwitz with her young son and daughter. The defining moment in this story is one of Sophie and her children, standing in line with all the other prisoners, waiting to be processed when a German officer approaches her. He offers Sophie a choice: which one of your children should die? Choose or they will both be taken. She chose her daughter.

Then there is Toni Morrison’s story, Beloved. The character Sethe is a runaway slave living in Cincinnati with her four children. When the master hunts her down, Sethe grabs her children and runs to the toolshed. She knows she would rather they not live than to see them returned to slavery and so she aims to take things into her own hands. The youngest, a two-year-old girl, is killed before Sethe’s hand is stopped.

The story of Sophie, the story of Sethe – both these stories are based on accounts of true events, by the way. Showing again that, in the words of Lord Byron:

“Tis strange,-but true; for truth is always strange;

Stranger than fiction: if it could be told,

How much would novels gain by the exchange!

How differently the world would men behold!”

Then, of course, there is this story from Genesis, the binding of Isaac.

I heard someone say, “If they had asked my opinion when they were putting together the Bible, I would have told them: ‘Look; this story right here? That is exactly the kind of story that gives the Old Testament a bad name. Take it out. No one wants to hear this.’”

It is a story that changes everything. Abraham will no longer be the same. Isaac will not be the same. Even we are not the same after hearing it. And Sarah? It might be that Sarah never learned just what exactly happened on Mount Moriah, which would be a blessing, but she definitely knew that her husband and son were not the same when they returned. 

In fact, this is a different Abraham that we see in this story. This man who is sometimes a lively conversation partner with God, is now silent. In this silence we, the readers, are compelled to fill in the gaps with our own feelings.

How does this story make you feel?

The essential human response, I think, is to be appalled. Most people I have spoken to are certain they would not – could not – do what was asked. They would not be as obedient as Abraham was in this situation. 

What does this story tell us about our God?

The book of Genesis is a story of beginnings, and as we read it we are just getting to know God, right along with these characters we meet – Abraham and Sarah and their descendants. One of the things we observe about God, one thing that makes this God unique in the entire panoply of gods who were worshiped in their world back then, is that our God cares about us. Our God loves us and wants us to thrive. A truly remarkable thing, when you consider the alternatives. 

In all other cases, it was not like that. Human relationships with their gods were strictly transactional. People offered sacrifices to appease the gods, so they might bring rain, so the crops would grow, so the people would not starve to death. Never would they have imagined that the gods cared about their lives. Never would it occur to them that they might appeal to the gods’ mercy. Only that they must figure out how to satisfy the gods’ appetites.

For the people of Israel, living in this thoroughly multicultural environment, it took a long time for them to get to know their God. Many generations of evolving, slowly, by trial and error, to figure out just who this God is. Just what this God wants from them. For a long time, many generations, they were casting around, sampling other gods, other religious practices. Which included human sacrifice. 

Perhaps they thought: Other people are doing it. Perhaps they wondered: Is this what we should do, too? Would this be an acceptable offering, an effective form of worship? 

Would it? Really? The Bible holds Abraham up as a mountain of a man, a model figure of faith. But in those three days I am certain Abraham was floundering. Struggling.

Isaac said to him, Dad, where is the lamb for the sacrifice? And Abraham said to Isaac, God will provide.

God will provide, said Abraham, with no earthly idea of what, of how this story would end.

When they reached the place, Abraham built the altar. He laid the wood for the fire. He laid his son atop the altar and he took his knife in his hand. Is this possible? The stuff of nightmares – is this really what Abraham’s God would demand of him?

Finally, emphatically, the answer was no.

And then – at last – he knew it. God will provide a better way. 

It took some time for the people of Israel to understand this – a lot of time. It was a hard lesson to learn for them. Trust is not easily come by. Faith is hard earned. But eventually, centuries later, they put it down in these stories, stories that would be handed down through the generations. Stories that would say:

There once was a time when the people lived in fear – fear of the evil that surrounded them, fear of evil that might take hold of them, control them. And the greatest fear of all: that their God would be a heartless, cruel master over them; one who would take from them what was most precious to them. And they wondered: Is it possible?

And the answer was no. God will provide a better way.

What we are given in this story of Abraham and Isaac is the knowledge that God will not demand such sacrifice. 

And in the context of the whole story of God and Israel, we know that this was one of many tests. We know that Israel would wander, would allow their fear and sin to lead them in other directions, away from their God. But that they would – again and again – return to this God of mercy, God of life. All through their history, they would choose this God, over the other choices.

During these four weeks we have been exploring the anatomy of hope, we have gone into some dark places. I think it was necessary, because to find a hope that is strong enough to endure, we must be willing to see what it is up against.

As I said to you at the beginning of this series, it is essential to find a foundation for your hope that is strong, that can endure through all the challenges of this world. And only God is strong enough. When we build our hope on the promises of God, we have a sure foundation. And we must do so. As John Calvin said to the church, “What would become of is if we did not obstinately cling to hope?”

As we continued our examination of the anatomy, we looked at the heart, where we had to acknowledge that the heart will suffer. As the Apostle Paul said, “Affliction produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope.” And there is no shortcut. Hope is like a fine wine – it takes time to develop.

We then moved on to the eyes of hope, which are able to give us a different perspective. As we saw in the story of Hagar, God can show us possibility where we might have seen nothing, and possibility may give us reason to hope.

Finally, today, we have the hands, as we recognize that real hope is an active thing. It drives us to love and serve others, in the way God has always loved and provided for us. Our hope comes from the recognition that the God we serve is different from all the alternatives. And choosing this God means turning away from the ugly, evil alternatives that are offered in this world; it means putting our hands to working for a better way. 

It turns out that, just as the people of Israel were confronted with evil alternatives in the form of other gods, other religious practices, in our world we are facing the same sort of thing. There is a lot of bad religion around us – including forms of Christianity. There are plenty of alternatives that teach hate over real love. Alternatives that elevate judgment and exclusiveness over compassion and lovingkindness. Alternatives that relish war and get excited about what they call “maximum lethality.” But we cannot ask Jesus to bless maximum lethality.

In all ages, humans have faced choices and have had to figure out where to plant their hope. You can plant it in a system of transactions, where there is no grace – only judgment. You can plant it in a system of sacrifices, where some lives are expendable while others are valued. But those will fail. There is a better way.

Donna Clark shared a quote with me that came at just the right time. “Hope has two beautiful daughters: Anger and Courage. Anger at the ways things are and Courage to change things.” 

Of these two, Anger is the easier one. Anger gives us pleasure and requires nothing.

C.S. Lewis once said that the pleasure of anger lies in the fact that we feel entirely righteous when we are angry. But this is a tragic error; only God is entirely righteous. 

I invite you today to place your hope in God, who is faithful. Abide in this hope, and let the power of the Spirit flow through you, giving you courage to walk that better way.

Let us “provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together,” as the letter to the Hebrews says. 

Hold fast to our hope in God, who shows us a better way.

The Anatomy of Hope, Week 3: Eyes

Genesis 21:8-21

1 Peter 1:3-9

You might not know much about Hagar, because the story of Genesis doesn’t make her a main character. Although I would argue she ought to be.

Hagar is first introduced in Chapter 16 of Genesis. Years have already passed since God first called Abraham on this journey, making promises about descendants that would surpass the number of stars in the sky. Yet even now Sarah remains childless. God occasionally returns to reiterate the promise to Abraham, but nothing happens.

And so, not terribly surprising to anyone, Sarah decides to take action. Hagar is a woman who is enslaved to her. She is Egyptian, presumably young and healthy, so Sarah decides she will take a chance on her.

In those times, men often took more than one wife – for the sake of being fruitful and multiplying. And a woman who held another woman enslaved, could force that other woman to become her husband’s concubine. Any child that was born of such a union could be claimed as the primary wife’s own. 

And so Sarah makes the proposal to Abraham, who does not refuse. Then Sarah, Abraham’s wife, takes Hagar the Egyptian, and gives her to her husband Abraham as a wife.

Hagar conceived, according to plan. 

All this happened before Abraham and Sarah were visited by divine beings, who told them that Sarah would have a son, in due season. Which made Sarah laugh.

At her age, she had every right to be doubtful, but it may be that her laughter betrayed something else, too. After what she had done, giving Hagar to Abraham, watching her enslaved woman bear her husband’s child, the pain of all this! Why now should she be promised a son of her own? The timing seems off and, with bitterness, Sarah laughed.

Hagar gives birth to a son, Ishmael, who will thrive. And Abraham loves his first-born son. How painful this must be for Sarah. But she lives with it, the child of her own scheming, the sole heir to Abraham. And Sarah and Hagar and Ishmael co-exist for a dozen or so years.

Things change, though, when the long-promised child finally arrives. Isaac, the child of laughter, is born to Sarah.

When Isaac is weaned, which would have been around the age of two or three years, Abraham throws a great feast. This marks a milestone in the child’s life – he has survived the vulnerable period of infancy. Many cultures have a tradition of holding a celebration, not at the birth of a child, but at the survival of a child. And so at this time, when Isaac can, presumable, walk and talk as well as eat solid food, there is a celebration. And Sarah is, no doubt, joyful.

Then she looks out and sees Isaac playing with Ishmael, that son of Hagar, and her joy dissipates. Ishmael is a teenager by now, not a small child. Perhaps Sarah is afraid that he will hurt Isaac. But, perhaps, it is simply that she resents his existence.

Of course, Ishmael only exists because Sarah willed it. At a time in her life when her hope was dwindling, in her desperation she concocted that plan, involving her enslaved woman Hagar, which led to the birth of Ishmael. During what may have been one of her lowest periods, Sarah swallowed her pride and created this situation where she would no longer be Abraham’s sole wife. And, even as the first wife, Sarah made herself a lesser wife – as long as she remained childless.

The fact that Hagar was Egyptian might also have something to do with Sarah’s bitter feelings now. Years earlier, Sarah had what was probably a traumatic experience in Egypt. As she and Abraham approached the land of Egypt in their travels, Abraham paused. He said to Sarah, you are a beautiful woman and I am afraid the Egyptian men will kill me, so they can take you. Say you are my sister, Sarah, then all will go well.

All did go well for Abraham, but not for Sarah. She was taken into Pharaoh’s household as a concubine. And Abraham was treated like a prince, given livestock and slaves – I guess as a bride price for his sister.

The story goes that God intervened, protecting Sarah from being violated, and she was returned to Abraham. But would it be any wonder if Sarah still carried the psychological wounds of her time in Egypt? Would we blame her if her resentment of Hagar was intensified by the fact that she was Egyptian?

Whatever feelings are roiling in Sarah as she looks on Isaac and Ishmael, it is enough to make her turn to Abraham and say, get rid of her and that child. 

Abraham, we hear, is not so happy about this. After all, Ishmael was his first-born son and he loves him. But, the story goes, God affirmed for Abraham that this was, indeed, the right action. Send them away, Abraham. I have other plans for them. So early the next morning, Abraham gives Hagar a skin of water and sends her off into the desert with her son.

By this time, remember, Ishmael is a teenager. Even though the story as it is written makes it sound like he is a small child – even an infant. To some degree, this would reflect two or more versions of the story being patched together, somewhat awkwardly. Remember we are dealing with an oral tradition, stories that had been told and retold for hundreds of years before they were written down. 

But aside from the clunky editing, the words emphasize how vulnerable they are out there in the desert, alone. Ishmael survived infancy, something they probably celebrated, but will he survive this ordeal? 

Hagar is afraid. She wanders for a while and gets lost. Where should she go? Which way? Eventually, she runs out of water, she loses hope.

It is, in fact, quite alarming to see how Hagar reacts. Her son is frail from dehydration, and she walks away from him. Her son is dying, of this she seems sure, and she turns her back on him. I have always been very troubled by this detail of the story. It seems to reveal a complete lack of motherly instinct. But what it really shows is a complete lack of hope.

Hagar was a resourceful woman, a hopeful woman – until now. And now we see that hope is gone. Not even a glimmer remains. She is ready to lose her son, and ready to die, herself.

What makes this even more tragic is knowing that this isn’t Hagar’s first time alone in the desert. She has been here before. It was after she conceived Ishmael, when Sarah went into a rage to see this enslaved woman looking all rosy and content. She treated Hagar very roughly then, and Hagar ran away. 

Back then, Hagar was fierce. She was angry. Even though she had no idea where she was going, she was not afraid. She found some water – by luck or because God led her there. Then, as she sat beside this spring in the desert, God spoke to her. “Hagar, where have you come from and where are you going?”

God told Hagar to return to Sarah, but also had a promise for Hagar. “You will bear a son, and he shall be called Ishmael. He will be fierce; he will be a fighter. And for you, Hagar, I will greatly multiply your offspring.” Much the same as God’s promise to Abraham.

Beside that spring in the desert, Hagar listened to the word God spoke to her. Then she spoke. Hagar named this God, saying, “You are El-roi.” It means God who sees.

And the truth is, all three religions that claim Abraham as their father – Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, are shaped by Hagar’s observation that God is El-roi, the one who sees me. And, Hagar added triumphantly, “I have seen God and yet live!”

That was the first time Hagar was out alone in the desert. Now she is there again, but this time is different. Having been cast out of her home; being a considerably older woman now – maybe 15 or 20 years older – Hagar is afraid, confused. She no longer seems to have an inner compass, and she gets lost. Hagar who once was so fierce, now is lost.

I have not ever been in such a place as this – a place of utter hopelessness. Hagar has become a woman who no longer believes she has anything to give to her child – not even a comforting touch. Hagar walks away from her son; she, the woman who saw God, no longer wanted to see.

It is in that darkest moment, though, that God opens her eyes, so that she might see a well – once again, water in the desert. And to see the water is to see a different future for Ishmael and herself. To see the water is to see life. To see the water is renewed hope.

She gets up and goes to the well, she draws water for Ishmael. This boy will live. With new hope, Hagar is once again a woman of action. 

She is a minor character in the book of Genesis, but the Islamic tradition cherishes the stories of Hagar. Muslims maintain that Hagar and Ishmael settled in that very spot. Sometime later, a band of nomads came through and asked Hagar if they could stay there. According to the legend, Hagar consented but told them the water rights belonged to her and Ishmael alone.  For some reason, the nomads honored this arrangement she demanded of them.

In due time, Hagar found a wife for Ishmael. He married and had children, and Hagar’s descendants were many, so this story has a happy ending. Something that was by no means guaranteed in the middle of the story.

All because God opened her eyes to the possibility that was there.

Possibility.

In the epistle of Peter, we read about this thing he calls genuine faith, a faith ready for salvation to be revealed – even when it is not seen yet. A faith founded on Jesus Christ, whom we do not see, but love. Even though we do not see him we believe in him. This is faith, and faith is accompanied by hope.

Hagar only needed to see a reason to hope. The water was that reason. Now new possibilities were opened for her, and Hagar’s hope was restored to her.

If we have lost hope, God is able to open our eyes. The God who sees us in our time of need, can open our eyes so that we can see possibility; so we can see a reason to hope again.

Blessed be the God who sees us in our need. The God whose mercies give us new birth into a living hope – in Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

 

The Anatomy of Hope, Week 2: The Heart

Genesis 18:1-15

Romans 5:1-8

Lately I have become aware of one of my personal flaws. I like efficiency, probably a little too much.

I like things that are scheduled. Starting things on time. And ending them on time. Although I have to admit that session meetings often run too long. But I try to be on time. As if my life depended on it. As if the schedule were the most critical thing.

But this story of Abraham has got me thinking about this, questioning this. Because what is time, really? To our God, what is time?

Last week I heard someone say: “We serve a wildly inefficient God.” This is true.

Efficiency was not God’s concern in the story of Abraham and Sarah, was it? As we heard last week, God waited until Abraham was 75 years old before calling him out to a new life. And in the story we hear today, Abraham is pushing 100. For 25 years God has been telling Abraham and Sarah, who are well past the normal age of parenting, that God will bless them with many descendants. Is it any wonder Sarah laughed?

Who could blame her? Certainly not Abraham, for he also laughed at God just a bit earlier, when he was informed by the Lord that 90-year-old Sarah would be blessed with a son, that “kings of people shall come from her.” Hilarious. Abraham fell on his face laughing at that one.

Clearly, they did not believe any such thing could happen. The idea was absurd, of course. But also, the idea was painful for them. For two people approaching the end of their lives, who have suffered the pain of childlessness this long, maybe it felt as though God was taunting them with false hope. 

And so they laughed. Abraham and Sarah laughed at the promise of God. Which is something that might seem blasphemous to us – until we realize that we do it too. When it feels as though God’s promises are so far off from the reality we live with, we might laugh.

Some years ago, I offered a prayer in the congregation for peace in the Middle East. And after worship a member walked up to me and asked, “Are you dreaming? How can you say that with a straight face?” And he laughed.

Just last week, in a discussion about Genesis, one person laughed and said, “How is any of this relevant to parents who are struggling to feed their children?”

It is a particular struggle of a faithful life to sustain hope when there is no sign on the horizon that God will be true to God’s promise. In painful times, especially, hope is hard. But such times are also when hope is most needed. 

In the verses we read today from the letter to the Romans, Paul patiently explains it all to us. “Affliction produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame.” Or as other translations have it, “hope does not disappoint.”

If we can only hold on to it, for as long as we need it.

You and I would like to move as quickly as possible from affliction to hope, skipping over endurance altogether. Yet, we are faced with the fact that faith and hope are not about efficiency. 

And so, the question we wonder about today is, how do we sustain hope in times of affliction and suffering. How does the heart hang on in the long walk of faith – faith in things yet unseen?

In our exploration of the anatomy of hope, today we examine the heart, because when it comes to matters of hope, the heart is inevitably involved.

Think of Abraham and Sarah. God’s word had to have seemed inscrutable to them. Their years have been filled with uncertainty, threat, danger, disappointment. Although we have no idea what their lives were like before God called them on this journey, we know what the story tells us about the journey. During these years of wandering they have traveled through treacherous territory, where they felt threatened. They have suffered disputes over their herds and land with Lot, Abraham’s nephew – which became bad enough that they had to part ways. 

There were battles Abraham got involved in, negotiations he was tasked with. Life has been relentlessly hard for Abraham and Sarah. And through it all, God kept returning to Abraham to tell him all the good things that were in store for him and Sarah. Every time they heard the promise reiterated, they had to have wondered. 

There were plenty of moments of doubt. The times they laughed at the promise. There were even moments when both Abraham and Sarah tried to take things into their own hands – to become their own source of hope. Most notably, this happened when Sarah hatched the plan to give Abraham a child by her servant Hagar. This child, Ishmael, would be the promised descendant, they thought. It might have seemed like a good plan, but it wasn’t God’s plan.

And so, once again, they reoriented. Once again, they turned toward the promise they had been hearing for so many years, reopening the wounds of their hearts. They let themselves hope – a little bit. Not that much, maybe. But enough to keep them on the journey. 

This is important: They weren’t perfect, but there was enough hope to keep going, even through their suffering.

One thing we learn – from the great story of the Bible, as well as from our own lives – is that a life of faith does not eliminate pain. Every Christian has experiences of grief, heartache, disappointments of all kinds. And the truth is, the Christian path opens our hearts to even more pain. Compassion for others is a hallmark of discipleship, a quality that Jesus modeled for us, a gift of grace. 

We stand in God’s grace, Paul says in the letter to the Romans, through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. This is where we find the gift of faith, and hope. This is the vantage point from which we have a different view of things. We see suffering and endurance in a different light. Standing in the place of grace, we see God at work in all things.

Standing in this grace, we see ourselves connected to suffering everywhere. The world wants to tell us that all is well if we are not personally suffering. But standing in God’s grace we find that the suffering of others is also painful to us. The heart of faith has compassion for all of God’s creation, just as God does. And the way to navigate this is with hope.

And although peace in the Middle East feels so far away, there is hope. Hope gives us ability to envision it, even while it is lacking. Hope gives us the desire to work for it.

And although Old Testament story feels so distant from the concerns of suffering families in our midst today, it may give us hope. The biblical story is all about suffering families, too, but through the story we learn that God never abandoned them; hope perseveres. In hope we await God’s time.

And this is why hope demands humility of us. We cannot pretend to have the answers. We cannot know why, or for how long, someone will suffer. Hope enables us to walk alongside them, loving them, offering what support and aid that we can. 

In God’s time, a child was born to Abraham and Sarah. And once again, Sarah laughed, but this time it was the laughter of joy. All in God’s time. The right time. 

Not according to their schedule, but at the right time – our wildly inefficient God’s time. 

Good things take time, but hope will get us there, through the waiting.

Compassion for others whose lives don’t even intersect with ours, is inefficient, but faith will not let us look away and hope will see us through.

The heart will suffer – there is no way around this for a hopeful people. But hope will also keep our hearts open, and by this we will receive the love of God.

The Anatomy of Hope, Week 1: Foundation

Genesis 12:1-9

Hebrews 6:13-20

Forty years ago, when I was young and starting a family, people were worried about overpopulation. That was a big thing. China had its one child policy, which they were enforcing pretty rigidly. Only one child per family permitted, with very few exceptions. 

Among my friends, I would sometimes hear concern about whether or not it was responsible, even ethical, to bring a child into this world. What would life be like for them? What unknown challenges would they face in their lifetime? 

But while I heard people expressing these concerns, I don’t know if it actually impacted their decisions. It seemed like most of my friends were, like me, having families – two, three, even four children. And China did a total reversal of its one-child policy, when they discovered there might not be enough people to care for them when they get old. 

So I think most of us stopped worrying about overpopulation. Life went on. But now there has been another shift, a new thing to worry about.

I recently read an article by the journalist Neal Gabler in which he shared his concerns about what he sees as a sort of national depression. He says surveys show 78 percent of Americans believe the future looks dim. And maybe not only Americans.

He points to research on the worldwide decline in birthrates. It seems that the decline is not related to financial stability or how much of a support network you have, or maybe not even related to how much you want to have children. It seems that people are sharing a sense that the future is too uncertain for the lifelong commitment of parenthood. 

Which does not seem like a good thing.

But the falling birthrate is really just a symptom of a very complex problem in our world. We could talk about it all at great length and get very depressed in the process, so I’ll spare us that. But there is one thing I want to lift up, the one thing that really took my breath away: In Gabler’s words, people no longer trust hope.

That what the future holds is only more of the same disunity, disfunction, and dissatisfaction. That our values have been trampled. That truth has been so devalued that we no longer even know what is real; we no longer know what to trust.

I cannot deny these realities. Yet, when I read Gabler’s conclusion that hope has died in our world, I felt a strong resistance well up inside me, saying, “No.” It is all too possible for the hope of a people to die. But if it does, then perhaps that hope has been anchored in something that cannot sustain it.

The foundation of our hope matters more than anything. Which brings us to the story of Abram and Sarai.

The history of the people Israel begins with two persons: Abram and Sarai. In the 12th chapter of Genesis, we meet this couple who are just beginning an extraordinary journey together. Even more extraordinary is their age. Abram is 75 years old; Sarai is younger, but not by that much. I think we would agree that most septuagenarians do not embark on brand new epic journeys into the unknown, but that is what Abram and Sarai did. And the reason they did this is because God made a promise to them.

Go out to the land I will show you, God says, a land you know absolutely nothing about; do this, and I will make a great nation of you. And even though this elderly couple had no children at all – for Sarai, the story says, was barren – they followed the promise. They went.

And as they traveled, God led them through the land of Canaan and said to Abram, this is it, right here; I will give this land to your children. Children, of course, that they did not have because Sarai was barren. They looked at this land, and then they moved on. Because the promise was not yet.

This is the beginning of it all – the story of our faith and the faith of our ancestors. This story begins with a promise to two old folks, a promise that will set the foundation for everything that follows. And in everything that follows, we see a pattern where the people seek to follow their God. Then they stumble. They fall into a deep pit where there is darkness, where they might easily lose hope – but then they discover that God is still with them. God has not abandoned them.

It is a pattern that repeats itself so many times it becomes an expectation. Human beings will just mess everything up, such that it feels impossible to sort it all aright, to get back on track. But then, God, who does not let go of us, sets us back on track. It is a story of hope, and the foundation of our hope is our God whose promises are sure, whose love is steadfast.

The pattern repeats through the scriptures: the human tendency to fall, but as we remind ourselves in the great communion prayer, God called a people back to God’s self through the law handed down to Moses, through the prophets who spoke truth to kings to show them how they had fallen away from righteousness, and finally, through Jesus Christ our Lord. 

It is in Christ, we believe, that the promise to Abraham is fulfilled – the promise that through Abraham all the families of the earth will be blessed. It is in Christ that we get a glimpse of the glory of God, a taste of the kingdom of heaven. It is in Christ that we anchor our hope, a hope that will not fail us.

For as the writer to the Hebrews says, it is through two things – God’s character, which we know as love, and God’s promise, as old as Abraham – that we may seize the hope that is set before us. 

But we must also know that the hope is for now – not just for the next world – a kind of pie in the sky in the sweet by and by. The Letter to the Hebrews and the other New Testament epistles offer some words of comfort, but much more, they give words of guidance, encouragement, instructions for the church: how to be a community of human beings made in the image of God. How to move this world toward hope. And that is our calling.

In the early 16th century, John Calvin, the father of our Reformed faith, arrived at the city of Geneva and it was a sight. It was a sort of a wild west town, corrupt politically and religiously. It was a turbulent age, not so different from our own time in that way. But Calvin somehow managed to bring order to this place. They created a culture in which the poor were cared for, where people had a sense of their role in creating a better society. They created a place where there was hope. Even though the world was not less turbulent, their lives were shaped by hope.

In his commentary on the book of Hebrews, Calvin writes to his community about the corruption, the sin, the misery that they all knew so well, and then he asks, “what would become of us if we did not obstinately cling to hope?”

Hope gives us a clear vision of a better way. Hope stirs us to act, to become better than we were, to work for a world that is better than it was.

Yes, there are many signs in our world that despair is winning the battle. People giving up on community as we hibernate in our homes. People giving up on politics as we see our leaders unwilling to work together anymore. People giving up on the earth, because caring for it is too big a job for individuals to do. We even see people giving up on life when they decide against the possibility of bringing children into the world. 

I see despair. Even in our congregation I know there is that risk. Some of you completed the little survey I gave you this week about hope. When asked how it feels when you contemplate the unknown, some of you said that you do feel some dread, or worry, that drags you down. Despair is a real thing that looms out over us. But hope still has the power to hold us. Hope in the sure and steady love of God, the God who has a plan for us, for this world created with love. With hope, we will not give up. 

The choice for hope is a kind of resistance in this world. Although we will still feel pain, we will not be devastated by it. Although we will see the world around us choosing other ways, we will stay on the path that God has set for us, lifting one another back up when we stumble. And although we see people around us surrendering to apathy, we will choose active, hopeful engagement with our world. 

During these next few weeks, we will walk together, praying together, studying together, seeking a better understanding of the way of hope. 

Let us go this way together because, as the Apostle Paul wrote, “Hope does not disappoint.”

The Why of It

Genesis 1:1-2:4a

Matthew28:16-20

Taylor Swift wrote a song called happiness. In it she says, “There will be happiness after you. There was happiness because of you. Both of these things can be true.”

So, I am thinking about the sentence, “Both of these things can be true.” Because as confounding as it can be sometimes, it is so often the case in life. Two things that seem to contradict each other can both be true, at the same time.

We say that God is three – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. And we also say that God is one. There is one God – God alone. Both these things are true.

We say that Jesus is fully human, just like us. And we also say that Jesus is fully divine. Both these things are true.

And in the scriptures, we read that we are made in the image of God – Genesis chapter 1. And that we are made from the dirt of the earth – chapter 2, when God formed man, Adam, from the dust of the ground and then breathed life into him. We know that we are fallen, broken, earth-bound creatures and that we are little less than divine. Both these things are true.

It is true that we find a lot of things to be contradictory in the scriptures and in the language of our faith. It is not because the scriptures are sloppy, or carelessly written. It is because of the deep complexity of all of it.

But complexity and uncertainty are uncomfortable, so humans have a strong urge to simplify things as much as possible as quickly as possible. As that old gospel song has it, God said it, I believe it, that settles it for me; we sure do want things to be settled.

And so in the literal reading of Genesis 1, we hear that God created everything in six days, followed by a day of rest. And, if we are not inclined to embrace the poetic beauty of it, we can get bogged down in the details of this spare description of creation.

And worry over explanations for how there could be day and night before the sun was created. And whether the length of a day was the same then, in the beginning, as it is now. And if it is possible to mesh this first creation story with the one that follows in Chapter 2, the story of Adam and Eve in the garden.

And if we are seeking simplicity and certainty, then settling these questions is of the utmost importance. To understand this opening passage as poetry – an ode to the breathtaking beauty of creation – is not an option.

God created the world, and all that is in it, and called it good. To me, this is sacred truth of the highest level. But some find it too worrisome because we also know that we are broken by sin, and this is the problem that our faith is meant to solve, we think. Not by making us good but simply forgiven.

It is quite a bit more complex than that.

I remember participating in an intergenerational Sunday school class in which we asserted that God made us good. And there was a man in the class who was deeply disturbed by that assertion. He called it bad theology.

The class leader said, but that’s what the Bible says in Genesis chapter 1. And he said, I know, but we shouldn’t say it; it just confuses people.

Above all, we don’t want to be confused. We would much prefer to have certainty.

And so we dig into the “what” questions. What did God create first? Light. See verse 3.

And if we are really feeling adventurous, we will dip a toe into the “how” questions. Such as, how was there any light before God created the sun. The answer we might find is, God is light. See 1 John 1:5.

But the “why” questions – the richest, most meaningful and edifying questions – we might fail to ask at all.

Very young children have a habit of asking “why.” Again and again and again. Each response leads to a repetition of the same question: Why? Until eventually even the most patient adult will answer, “Because I said so.”

But today I will lean on the words of Jesus when he said we should become like children, and I will ask the question “why.”

Why did God create this good world? Why did God separate the light from the dark, the day from the night, the earth from the sky, the waters from the solid ground? Why did God create so many different species of animals and fish and birds and plants?

Why are we, in the words of the Psalm, so fearfully and wonderfully made?

There is an overwhelming amount of diversity in this world God created. Why?

The problem with the “why” questions is there is often not one certain answer. But when we start asking the questions, we start seeing many things that are true. And we can see that all this beautiful difference in the world is made to work together. Day is in relationship with night, water is in relationship with earth, humans are in relationship with animals and with other humans. When we say that God created order out of primordial chaos, we are saying that God created the potential for fruitful and blessed relationships. So,

Why did God create the world? Maybe for the intention of being in relationship with us – all of us.

Why did God create so much diversity? Maybe because this allows for so much more creativity in the world.

And why did God send the Son, Jesus, into the world to live and die and defy death? Why did the resurrected Jesus give his disciples a mission – to go out to all the nations of the earth, bringing the goodness of Christ to them? Why have we been called to reach beyond borders, to reach across aisles, across race and creed and even political preferences?

Why have we, who call ourselves followers of Jesus, been sent, by Jesus, to care for the others whose needs are such that we can hardly comprehend, whose choices baffle us, and appearance alienate us?

Because, though we are distinct and different in so many ways, we are the same – beloved children of the Lord, made in God’s very own image.

Both things can be true. Praise be to God. 

With the Eyes of Your Heart

Ephesians 1:15-23 

Luke 24:44-53 

When we think about where God resides, we have a tendency to think “up.” Humans understand things spatially. We know where things are in relation to other things. So this kind of spatial thinking extends to our thoughts about other-worldly things too. Heaven is up in the sky. Whenever we think of God, or our loved ones in heaven, we want to look up. 

There is an old movie made in South Africa called The Gods Must Be Crazy. A man named Xi lives in a hunter-gatherer society, far away from the industrialized world we live in. One day an empty glass Coke bottle falls at his feet – a pilot threw it from his plane. Xi has never seen anything like this before. He assumes it is a gift from the gods, because it fell from the sky.

So Xi takes it back to his village where everyone is curious about this strange gift. Soon they begin to find all kinds of uses for it. Everyone wants this wonderful thing – but unfortunately there is only one bottle. This gift becomes the source of much new stress in their relationships around the notion of scarcity. Lots of arguing about who gets to use the bottle how much and when – and pretty soon Xi has decided this gift is not worth having, so he takes the bottle and sets off on a journey to dispose of it once and for all. He plans to take it to the edge of the world and drop it off.

The film is about the journey and all the different people and difficulties he encounters along the way. But, in the end, he does find a place that looks like the end of the world to him. He drops the bottle into the abyss and feels the satisfaction of ridding himself of a big problem. Then he begins his journey back home. And he, presumably, lives happily ever after.

You and I know that the earth is not flat. And we know that heaven is not up in the sky. But still, don’t we act as though it is?

In the story from Luke’s gospel, we read that Jesus was carried up into heaven. Again, in the first chapter of the book of Acts, we read that he ascended right before their eyes, and that “they were gazing up toward heaven.” 

Perhaps, like me, you don’t often think about the ascension of Jesus. It often seems like a detail that I just gloss over on my way to the story of Pentecost. What’s more, the story, brief as it is, makes it sound as though heaven is the same thing as gone. Jesus withdrew, we read; he was taken from their sight. Heaven, we read from this, is somewhere else. So I don’t spend much time on it. But maybe it’s worth taking a minute to wonder about.

 Jesus actually talks a lot about heaven – the kingdom of heaven or, sometimes, the kingdom of God. It frequently comes up in the gospels. But he often speaks about it in parables. 

What is heaven like? It is like a mustard seed; it starts out as the smallest of seeds, but it holds within it enormous potential.

It is like a hidden treasure, or a pearl of great value; a person who finds it will recognize that its worth is greater than anything and everything else in the world.

It is like seed sown in a field; it is like yeast that, when mixed into dough, will cause everything to rise.

It is like a net thrown into the sea that catches every kind of fish.

It is like the landowner who forgives great debts.

It is the place that belongs to the children, to the poor, to the vulnerable.

The kingdom of heaven has drawn near; the kingdom of heaven is at hand.

And if we hear the words Jesus says about heaven, and we can stop looking up long enough to listen, we might realize that he seems to be talking about something very real, very present, very much available to us here and now.

This was something his first disciples had to find out after he ascended. Their great immediate concern was about where he had gone and when he might come back because, of course, they missed him terribly. They felt lost and without direction when he was gone. But gradually they began putting the pieces together, the things they had learned from him, and what they grew to understand was that he left them responsible, in some sense, for this beautiful kingdom.

He left them responsible for building the church, so every person on earth might have a taste of the kingdom of heaven.

And this is our inheritance too. This is our responsibility and gift. To uphold the body of Christ – the church; to share the vision we have been given; to offer to others the kingdom of heaven.

During this season of Easter, we have been looking at all the elements that are at the heart of being church. And we have also been in the midst of our annual stewardship season. That is not a weird coincidence. Because good stewardship is at the heart of being church.

According to Genesis, God created humans to be stewards over the whole of creation – to care for it, protect it, and nurture it. I believe that caring for creation is about doing what we can to ensure its continuance for future generations. 

In the gospel, Jesus made his followers the stewards of his church. In the same way, I believe that caring for the church is about doing what we can to ensure its continuance for future generations. To ensure that the church carries out its mission in the world.

This means that while we look back, with gratitude, we also look forward with a sense of commitment. 

When I was a seminarian, I heard the Reverend James Forbes preach in our seminary chapel. The Senior Minister at the Riverside Church in Manhattan, Reverend Forbes was a powerful preacher, full of the Spirit. After the service I approached him, and, apropos of nothing, I started telling him about my father-in-law, Peter Hill, who had also been a preacher. Peter was someone who inspired me on my journey, someone who meant a lot to me. He had died several months earlier at the time I was meeting Reverend Forbes. 

Reverend Forbes held on to my hand and listened to me intently. And then he leaned in and said to me, “And now it’s on you.”

I really did not know what the future held for me in that moment. But I knew what he was saying to me: step up; take on the mantle; give your life in service to Christ’s church.

And because in the Presbyterian Church we do not order ourselves hierarchically, I can say to you that the calling for each one of us is the same: step up. We are all called to give of ourselves in service to Christ’s church.

We are called to give freely, from a desire to see the church be the best we can be. We are called to give generously, from the knowledge that we receive God’s gifts freely and abundantly. Like the character Xi, we may know that a sense of scarcity brings harm to a community in all kinds of ways. But trust in God’s good abundance empowers us to do more than we might have imagined.

It is our calling as Christians to work together to carry out the mission of the church, sometimes working through tension and disagreement. We allow love to carry us through any conflict, seeking understanding and reconciliation, because our wholehearted commitment is to Christ’s church. It is our duty to support the church with our time, with our talents, our energy, our particular gifts of the Spirit, as well as our material possessions. Our giving to the church, in all its forms, is an act of faith, an act of gratitude, an act of love, knowing that all we have to give is pure gift, given to us by our Creator.

Now it’s on me and you.

Because 2000 years ago Jesus left his church in the hands of a few disciples. He could see the potential that was in them. Through the eyes of our hearts, we can see it too: what might be. We can see the possible.

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

For Keeps

1 Peter 3:13-22

John 14:15-21

One Sunday years ago I took a small group of college students to a little Quaker church. Actually, it’s called a meeting house.  This was in Millville, Pennsylvania, the Millville Friends Meeting, which has been there a long time – since 1795.  It is a very small, simple, old building with plain wooden pews.  In the front of the room there’s no pulpit because most Quakers don’t have preachers.  They are known for worshiping in silence and waiting on the Holy Spirit to speak to them. When someone feels inspired by the Spirit to share something, he or she will simply stand up and say what is on their heart and mind.

There were a couple of long benches in the front of the room that faced the pews, sort of like a choir loft, I guess.  We were invited to sit there so that we could watch things as they unfolded, so we did. The worship hour began and there was a long period of silence.

Then, someone stood and spoke briefly. Shortly after, another person stood and said something. It was all very calm and mostly quiet. From my seat in front, I found myself most interested in a family sitting toward the back. A father and mother with three young children. The children sat, leaning against mom and dad, all quiet and serene.  And I thought it was amazing.

After the worship ended I told the mother how impressed I was that her children were able to sit so calmly and quietly during the hour. She told me the whole family really treasured this time together – to be able to sit with one another, to just hold one another and rest in the silence. During the rest of the week, they led busy, active lives just like every other family we knew. But for this one hour of the week, they really valued the quiet.

So, I guess that’s something the Quakers have going on. They are offering something that we need – quiet. But most of us probably don’t even realize we need it, because we are so used to its absence. It’s not easy to find quiet in our world.  Even in our homes when we are sleeping, our appliances are still humming away. Even when we are not talking to one another, our TV’s and phones, and computers are making noise, talking to us. But without the quiet we are missing something we need.

This was something I had in mind when I was serving a church with a preschool on site. I wanted to offer Children’s Chapel. It was something I learned about from a colleague, who developed it in her congregation. It is a way for very young children to participate fully in the spiritual life of the church. 

Once a month the children and the teachers would walk in straight lines from their classrooms to the sanctuary. I wanted to do it every week but settled for monthly. When they arrived at the door, I would remind them that in this place we move more slowly, and we talk more softly; that in this place we are meeting God. This was just to help them transition, to quiet their spirits, to ready them for worship.

We would sit in a circle on the floor. I would guide them in taking a couple of deep breaths. 

Then we would greet one another with the ancient words of the church – 

The Lord be with you. And also with you.

We always lit a candle and I would remind them that God is here, and God is the light of the world.

And then we would begin to do the most amazing thing – we shared our joys and concerns. Because we all cared about one another and all the good and bad things that were going on in our lives. Here is something very important for us to know: Children understand that life holds both joys and sadnesses. It is the adults who think we can, somehow, prevent any sadness from impacting their lives.

After we shared our joys and concerns with one another, we shared all these things with God, who is with us, loves us, and cares for all the little and big things in our lives. Just like we do here.

Before sending the children back to their classrooms, we did one more thing: we blessed one another with these words: God made you, God loves you, and God is always with you. Now and then, parents would tell us that their children were taking this practice home with them.

When we come together in this place, we draw close to one another and we draw close to God. For many reasons, all kinds of reasons that matter. We come here because we have friends here whom we love – or we come here because we are looking for friends.  We come here because we have a need, a hunger, we are looking to fill – a hunger for love, for purpose, for joy, for peace. And maybe we will find what we need here. 

We come here because the spirit in us is calling out to the Spirit of God in this world – it’s like a little dog tugging on the leash when they see another dog and want to be closer. Maybe your spirit is the little dog that senses the Spirit of God here and wants to draw near. 

We come here because that same Spirit of God is whispering to us, calling us to be a part of God’s work in the world – somehow.

When we come together in this place we breathe deeply, knowing that with each breath we are filled with God’s Spirit. That it is like Jesus said, “I am in the Father, and you are in me and I am in you.” That God is as near to us as our breath. 

And a little bit of quiet sometimes is what you need to know this: that God made you, God loves you, and God is always with you. For keeps.