Proper 11 / Pentecost 9 / Ordinary Time 16
Preaching
Lectionary Preaching Workbook
Series VIII, Cycle A
Object:
Theme For The Day
There is nowhere we can run where God cannot find us, appearing even in the worldliest of places.
Old Testament Lesson
Genesis 28:10-19a
Jacob's Dream
Having escaped Esau's rage, Jacob follows Isaac's instructions and heads to the land of his mother, to seek a wife among his cousins, the daughters of his Uncle Laban (28:1-5). Journeying toward the lands of his ancestors, he has a dream one night. This in itself is significant, for God's gift of the dream indicates that he continues to be in the Lord's favor, despite the things he has done. This religious experience takes place during sleep, a time when he is powerless to resist or try to twist the meaning to his own purposes. In the dream, there is a "ladder" extending from the earth to heaven, with "the angels of God... ascending and descending on it" (v. 12). The meaning of the Hebrew is uncertain; it may just as well mean "tower" as "ladder" -- in which case it could be a ziggurat with a sloping ramp, similar to the Tower of Babel. In any event, the meaning is the same: Earth and heaven are not so distant as he previously supposed. This remote wilderness place, a place with no name (v. 11), is what some have called a "thin place" -- a place where earth and heaven meet. The Lord appears to Jacob in the dream and renews the covenant with him. As with his grandfather, Abraham, by Jacob's offspring "all the families of the earth shall be blessed" (v. 14). The Lord's next words are important to this holy wanderer, this spiritual refugee: "Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land" (v. 15). Jacob awakes, filled with wonder, saying, "Surely the Lord is in this place -- and I did not know it!" (v. 16). He looks around at the ordinary desert landscape, the moon reflecting off the sandy hills and windblown trees, and declares that this is "the house of God... the gate of heaven" (v. 17). Having met God in this place with no name, Jacob gives it a name. He arises the next morning, erects a stone cairn, pours oil on it, and names it Bethel, "house of God" (verses 18-19). A parenthetical note indicates that the place did have a name after all: It was called Luz. Jacob did not know that -- and we can, in fact, understand the inclusion of this place-name to be a sort of travel direction to future generations who wanted to visit the location of Jacob's vision. In verses that follow this week's lectionary selection, Jacob vows to live differently, more faithfully (verses 19-22). In the words of Walter Brueggemann, "Jacob is the trusting man. He finds the world of the dream more convincing than his old world of fear and guilt. In his wakefulness, he resolves to embrace the new reality of the dream.... He repents, deciding here and now to abandon his old presuppositions of fear for the new reality of assurance" (Genesis, in the Interpretation commentary series, John Knox Press, 1982, p. 246).
New Testament Lesson
Romans 8:12-25
Wait For The Revealing
Continuing his exhortation to live according to the spirit, not according to the flesh, Paul encourages his readers to "put to death the deeds of the body," that they may live (v. 13). By the Spirit's action, we are "children of God" because we have received "a spirit of adoption" (verses 14-15). This means we have been named "joint heirs with Christ" (v. 17). This is an extraordinary claim that the God of the eternal covenant, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, would welcome us into the divine family. Adoption was a familiar practice to the Romans. In their culture, there was ample precedent for a well-to-do family to bring into it a young man, on an equal basis with the family's biological children, to be another son and heir. To apply this practice to God, however, is a daring theological innovation on Paul's part. Verses 18-25 apply this concept of divine adoption with its promise of future reward to the troubled circumstances of the persecuted Roman Christians. Think of your present sufferings, Paul urges them, in light of the future glory that will soon be revealed (v. 18). Now is a time of waiting, an experience that can be likened to that of a woman in labor (verses 22-23). There is pain, yes, but it is productive, hopeful pain -- for the day will soon come when all will celebrate "the freedom of the glory of the children of God" (v. 21). Finally, the apostle provides some wise words about hope -- which, by its very nature, is obscure. If, he counsels, we could clearly discern the outline of what God is going to do for us in the future, then could we even call it hope? (v. 24). The only response is to "wait for it with patience" (v. 25).
The Gospel
Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43
The Parable Of The Weeds
These two separate sections present Jesus' Parable of the Weeds, and its explanation -- a gloss which, although Matthew places it in the mouth of Jesus, is likely to represent the understanding of the Matthean church. Like last week's Parable of the Sower (which likewise includes an appended explanation), this one has an agricultural setting. A farmer sows seeds in a field, but one night an enemy comes and sows weed-seeds among the rows. What is to be done about it, the field hands ask the master? Nothing, replies the master. Just wait. Pulling the seedlings up right now is impossible, for many good plants would be removed along with the bad. When the plants reach maturity, it will be easy to tell which ones are worth keeping. This is a parable of grace. Do not trouble yourselves with evildoers, Jesus is advising. Leave them to God. Like the Parable of the Sower, the appended interpretation of the Parable of the Weeds is allegorical. The good plants are God's faithful people, the weeds are servants of the devil, and the harvest is God's judgment at which the good people will be separated from the bad (verses 37-40). This passage, too, concludes with the stern admonition, "Let anyone with ears listen!" (v. 43). Like many early church leaders, Matthew is growing increasingly concerned with purity in the Christian community. False prophets are rising up, luring some Christians to follow heretical ideas. The parable's interpretation has a stronger emphasis on divine judgment than does the parable itself. Jesus' central point -- the importance of patience in the between-times -- is all but ignored in the interpretation.
Preaching Possibilities
Today's lesson from the Hebrew scriptures deals with one of the shiftiest, sneakiest, and most unsavory characters in all of scripture. His name, of course, is Jacob.
It may sound strange, to some, to hear Jacob described as "shifty," "sneaky," "unsavory." Jacob, after all, is a patriarch: calling him names seems like the spiritual equivalent of running down Mom or apple pie! Over and over, the Bible invokes his name with honor: "the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob." If Israel had a Mount Rushmore, Jacob's head would be carved on it. His name, joined with those of his father and grandfather, forms a trinity of faithfulness.
Yet, if we take a good look at his story in the Bible, we'll see that it wasn't always that way.
The earliest thing we hear about Jacob is the story of his birth (which happens to have been last Sunday's Old Testament lesson). Jacob is a twin, born moments after his older brother Esau. As the midwife pulls Jacob from the womb, she finds him hanging onto the heel of his brother.
That image is so typical of the crafty Jacob. That's the way it will always be with him and his older brother: Esau out in front, and Jacob scheming to get even.
It's like that when Jacob cheats his brother out of the "birthright" -- Esau's inheritance as firstborn. Esau is "a skillful hunter," the Bible says, "a man of the field." Jacob, on the other hand, is "a quiet man, living in tents." Esau's hands are hard and calloused from physical labor; Jacob's are smooth and milky white from years of soft living in the camp. If Jacob and Esau were characters in a Western, Esau would be the hard-bitten trailmaster, wise in the ways of nature but tongue-tied and clumsy in town. Jacob, on the other hand, would be the smooth-talking riverboat gambler.
One day, Esau drags himself back from a long day of hunting, bringing along with him a roaring hunger. All the time Esau's been out foraging for meat, Jacob's been home, carefully simmering a lentil stew, stirring in the most appetizing herbs and spices. The aroma of that stew reaches Esau just as he's coming into camp. As soon as he smells it, he knows he has to have some.
"Not so fast," Jacob says. "You've got to pay the price."
Jacob's asking price is the birthright -- and, Esau, amazingly, agrees. Jacob has just purchased the right to his older brother's inheritance for the price of a bowl of stew. Pretty shrewd!
Yet, even though Jacob has won Esau's agreement, he still doesn't have the inheritance. Their father Isaac is still alive and, according to the customs of that day, Jacob's got one more thing to do: He's got to figure out some way to get his father's blessing.
In order to understand what's going on with this blessing business, we've got to understand a few things about the traditions of ancient Israel. A father's blessing, in those days, is more than a mere legal formality. It's got a mysterious, magical power all its own. A blessing is like an arrow shot from a bow: Once you let it go, you can't stop it in mid-flight. If Jacob can only get his father to lay hands on him and bless him, the inheritance will be his and his alone.
The opportunity arrives one day near the end of Isaac's life. Jacob's father is blind, and his health is failing. Isaac calls for his son Esau in order to pass on his paternal blessing. It is a solemn and holy moment, the handing on of the mantle of leadership from father to son. Jacob -- displaying contempt for his father's wishes -- sneaks into the room, wearing Esau's clothes. The blind Isaac reaches out to the son he thinks is Esau, feels the woolly coat, and confers the blessing on Jacob.
The fact that Isaac immediately realizes his mistake makes not a whit of difference. The arrow of the blessing has been released. Jacob is now the son through whom God's covenant will be carried out.
Jacob wins his blessing through lies and trickery and this presents a first-rate theological crisis for the people of Israel. Two generations before, God made a covenant with Abraham that his descendants would be numberless as the stars in the heavens. God demonstrated faithfulness to that covenant by causing Abraham's wife, Sarah, to conceive a child in her old age. Now, this black-sheep grandson of Abraham and Sarah threatens to scuttle the whole plan by putting himself first in the line of succession. How can there possibly exist such things as a covenant, and "God's chosen people," when a con artist like Jacob is permitted to push his way to the front of the line?
As odd as it may sound to our ears, the answer is that God's covenant triumphs anyway. It's kind of like the prophet Elijah on Mount Carmel -- remember that story? Elijah's having a contest with the prophets of Baal to see who can call down fire from heaven. Elijah sets up his pile of logs, just like the Baal-prophets, only he douses his woodpile with water, and digs a trench around it, so the whole campfire is sitting in a huge puddle. It is only then that Elijah calls down fire from heaven: demonstrating that his God can triumph over any obstacle.
The whole story of Jacob, which runs for many chapters in the book of Genesis, is one long illustration of the fact that nothing, but nothing can stop God's plan -- not even a shifty shyster like Jacob! As we get to know Jacob better, we take on a kind of grudging admiration for him. As crafty and as unprincipled as he is, he is at the same time very human. If God can work through somebody like him, maybe there's a place in God's plan even for the likes of us!
It is in the passage we read today that we see the first hint that God has chosen to work through Jacob anyway. This chapter of the story opens with Jacob on the run. Esau, enraged at his deceit, is planning to kill him. So, Jacob seeks refuge in a far country in the land of his uncle, Laban.
Jacob is in the wilderness, laid over in a spiritual no-man's-land, when he gives in to exhaustion and lays himself down to sleep. Weary from running, tired of constantly looking over his shoulder, Jacob reaches out and pulls over a large stone to use as a pillow. Resting his head on the stone, he gazes up into the starry heavens. Maybe, as he does, he remembers God's promise to his grandfather Abraham -- the promise of descendants numberless as the stars. Maybe Jacob wonders, in his hollow heart, how this promise will ever come true now that the heir of the covenant is a fugitive in the wilderness.
That night, Jacob has a dream. He dreams there is a ladder -- or maybe it's a stairway or a ramp, the Hebrew is unclear -- stretching from earth to heaven. Up and down the ladder climb the angels of God. Then, the Lord stands before Jacob and promises to him numberless descendants, offspring "like the dust of the earth."
"Know that I am with you," God says, "and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you."
Jacob awakens to the golden glow of sunrise in the eastern sky, and he remembers his dream. "Surely the Lord is in this place," he says, "and I did not know it!" Jacob erects a monument, a shrine, in that place -- a pile of stones, most likely, like the cairns that hikers build to mark a trail in the mountains. He calls the place "Bethel," "house of God."
There may be times in our lives when we, too, have a stone for a pillow, times of painful transition, of moving from one life-passage to another. Maybe the feelings of despair that tumble down upon us so naturally in such times are tied to the death of someone close, or to the loss of a job, or to the puncturing of a cherished dream.
In such times, we may very well find ourselves, like Jacob, wondering whether God is still there, whether we have a place in God's plan and indeed, whether God has a plan at all. As the sun goes down and the gloom of night gathers like a crouching beast of prey, we fill our minds with anxieties and fears, fantasies of impending disaster. We imagine the worst.
But then, something happens. Something reminds us God is still here, we are Christ's disciples, we too are children of the covenant, bound to the Lord of heaven and earth as adopted children (as Paul reminds us in this morning's passage from Romans). "Surely," we say to ourselves, "the Lord is in this place -- and I did not know it!"
Prayer For The Day
Surely, Lord, you are in this place,
the place where your people gather to worship.
Yet, just as surely, you are in other places as well:
the places of our suffering,
our striving,
our joys and our sorrows.
Sharpen our wits,
so we may be attentive to your nearness.
Remind us that we, too,
are children of your covenant. Amen.
To Illustrate
The ancient Greeks told the myth of Theseus: A prince condemned to enter the fearsome maze called "Labyrinth." The Labyrinth had been built to house the Minotaur, a ferocious monster that looked like a man with a bull's head. Even if Theseus succeeded in killing the Minotaur, he might never find his way out of the enchanted maze.
So what does Theseus do? He carries with him a ball of string, and ties one end of it to the entrance of the Labyrinth. After he reaches the center and slays the monster, he traces the string back to the entrance, and safety.
There are places in life where we discover -- perhaps to our amazement, but certainly to our joy -- that God is indeed present. We cannot relive the same experience later, but we can -- like Jacob with his cairn of stones and Theseus with his ball of twine -- mark the place and come back to it in our memory. Such memories stand us in good stead, as the perils of life overtake us.
***
One of the greatest of the Doonesbury cartoons is a little series that cleverly skewers those who try too hard to make the church relevant to modern life.
The Little Church of Walden is pastored by the Reverend Scott Sloane. Back when Scott Sloane first appeared in Doonesbury, he was a college campus minister, "the fighting young priest who can talk to the young." As the comic strip's characters graduated from Walden College back in the '70s, Scott went with them, to help them form a rustic commune where they all lived for a few years. Eventually, they all leave the commune and get real jobs -- even the Reverend Scott Sloane (although, in a certain sense, he never left). Scott stays on in that location -- and, by the time the 1990s roll around, the Walden Commune has morphed into the Little Church of Walden.
In this particular comic strip, Michael Doonesbury is back for a visit. He's asking Scott to tell the story of how his church got started.
"Aerobics," is the minister's reply.
"Aerobics?"
"I needed something to attract folks from the community. The focus group suggested an aerobics class. It worked, so I added yoga and bingo, and then a few 12-step programs, then we opened a soup kitchen, which led to cooking lessons. Before I knew it, I had my own denomination."
"So that's how religion spreads..." Michael muses, in reply.
In the second strip, Scott's giving Joanie Caucus a tour of his church. She hasn't been there for a while, so he's bringing her up to date on all the changes: "The old house is used for our spiritual wellness seminars and various 12-step recovery programs. In the new wings, we have the food court, a fitness center, and our interpretive dance studios."
Joanie wonders where, in that vast complex, the people worship. "On our website," Scott replies. "Keeps the heating bills down."
The final installment is a longer one from the Sunday comics. In it, Scott's talking with a couple, who are first-time visitors. He asks them what they're looking for in a church.
The husband replies with a question of his own: "Well, what's your basic approach here, Reverend? Is it traditional gospel?"
"In a way. I like to describe it as 12-step Christianity. Basically, I believe that we're all recovering sinners. My ministry is about overcoming denial. It's about recommitment, about redemption. It's all in the brochure there."
"Wait a minute!" says the husband, sounding suspicious. "Sinners, redemption -- doesn't that imply... guilt?"
"Well, yes, I do rely on the occasional disincentive to keep the flock from going astray. Guilt is part of that."
"I dunno," says the husband, turning to his wife. "There's so much negativity in the world as it is."
"That's right," she replies. "We're looking for a church that's supportive, a place where we can feel good about ourselves. I'm not sure the guilt thing works for us."
"On the other hand," muses the husband, paging through the glossy brochure, "you do offer racquetball."
"So do the Unitarians, honey," the wife shoots back. "Let's shop around some more."
No one raises the question of whether the Lord is in this place.
***
"How does one seek union with God?"
"The harder you seek, the more distance you create between him and you."
"So, what does one do about the distance?"
"Understand that it isn't there."
"Does that mean that God and I are one?"
"Not one. Not two."
"How is that possible?"
"The sun and its light, the ocean and the wave, the singer and his song -- not one. Not two."
-- Anthony DeMello
There is nowhere we can run where God cannot find us, appearing even in the worldliest of places.
Old Testament Lesson
Genesis 28:10-19a
Jacob's Dream
Having escaped Esau's rage, Jacob follows Isaac's instructions and heads to the land of his mother, to seek a wife among his cousins, the daughters of his Uncle Laban (28:1-5). Journeying toward the lands of his ancestors, he has a dream one night. This in itself is significant, for God's gift of the dream indicates that he continues to be in the Lord's favor, despite the things he has done. This religious experience takes place during sleep, a time when he is powerless to resist or try to twist the meaning to his own purposes. In the dream, there is a "ladder" extending from the earth to heaven, with "the angels of God... ascending and descending on it" (v. 12). The meaning of the Hebrew is uncertain; it may just as well mean "tower" as "ladder" -- in which case it could be a ziggurat with a sloping ramp, similar to the Tower of Babel. In any event, the meaning is the same: Earth and heaven are not so distant as he previously supposed. This remote wilderness place, a place with no name (v. 11), is what some have called a "thin place" -- a place where earth and heaven meet. The Lord appears to Jacob in the dream and renews the covenant with him. As with his grandfather, Abraham, by Jacob's offspring "all the families of the earth shall be blessed" (v. 14). The Lord's next words are important to this holy wanderer, this spiritual refugee: "Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land" (v. 15). Jacob awakes, filled with wonder, saying, "Surely the Lord is in this place -- and I did not know it!" (v. 16). He looks around at the ordinary desert landscape, the moon reflecting off the sandy hills and windblown trees, and declares that this is "the house of God... the gate of heaven" (v. 17). Having met God in this place with no name, Jacob gives it a name. He arises the next morning, erects a stone cairn, pours oil on it, and names it Bethel, "house of God" (verses 18-19). A parenthetical note indicates that the place did have a name after all: It was called Luz. Jacob did not know that -- and we can, in fact, understand the inclusion of this place-name to be a sort of travel direction to future generations who wanted to visit the location of Jacob's vision. In verses that follow this week's lectionary selection, Jacob vows to live differently, more faithfully (verses 19-22). In the words of Walter Brueggemann, "Jacob is the trusting man. He finds the world of the dream more convincing than his old world of fear and guilt. In his wakefulness, he resolves to embrace the new reality of the dream.... He repents, deciding here and now to abandon his old presuppositions of fear for the new reality of assurance" (Genesis, in the Interpretation commentary series, John Knox Press, 1982, p. 246).
New Testament Lesson
Romans 8:12-25
Wait For The Revealing
Continuing his exhortation to live according to the spirit, not according to the flesh, Paul encourages his readers to "put to death the deeds of the body," that they may live (v. 13). By the Spirit's action, we are "children of God" because we have received "a spirit of adoption" (verses 14-15). This means we have been named "joint heirs with Christ" (v. 17). This is an extraordinary claim that the God of the eternal covenant, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, would welcome us into the divine family. Adoption was a familiar practice to the Romans. In their culture, there was ample precedent for a well-to-do family to bring into it a young man, on an equal basis with the family's biological children, to be another son and heir. To apply this practice to God, however, is a daring theological innovation on Paul's part. Verses 18-25 apply this concept of divine adoption with its promise of future reward to the troubled circumstances of the persecuted Roman Christians. Think of your present sufferings, Paul urges them, in light of the future glory that will soon be revealed (v. 18). Now is a time of waiting, an experience that can be likened to that of a woman in labor (verses 22-23). There is pain, yes, but it is productive, hopeful pain -- for the day will soon come when all will celebrate "the freedom of the glory of the children of God" (v. 21). Finally, the apostle provides some wise words about hope -- which, by its very nature, is obscure. If, he counsels, we could clearly discern the outline of what God is going to do for us in the future, then could we even call it hope? (v. 24). The only response is to "wait for it with patience" (v. 25).
The Gospel
Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43
The Parable Of The Weeds
These two separate sections present Jesus' Parable of the Weeds, and its explanation -- a gloss which, although Matthew places it in the mouth of Jesus, is likely to represent the understanding of the Matthean church. Like last week's Parable of the Sower (which likewise includes an appended explanation), this one has an agricultural setting. A farmer sows seeds in a field, but one night an enemy comes and sows weed-seeds among the rows. What is to be done about it, the field hands ask the master? Nothing, replies the master. Just wait. Pulling the seedlings up right now is impossible, for many good plants would be removed along with the bad. When the plants reach maturity, it will be easy to tell which ones are worth keeping. This is a parable of grace. Do not trouble yourselves with evildoers, Jesus is advising. Leave them to God. Like the Parable of the Sower, the appended interpretation of the Parable of the Weeds is allegorical. The good plants are God's faithful people, the weeds are servants of the devil, and the harvest is God's judgment at which the good people will be separated from the bad (verses 37-40). This passage, too, concludes with the stern admonition, "Let anyone with ears listen!" (v. 43). Like many early church leaders, Matthew is growing increasingly concerned with purity in the Christian community. False prophets are rising up, luring some Christians to follow heretical ideas. The parable's interpretation has a stronger emphasis on divine judgment than does the parable itself. Jesus' central point -- the importance of patience in the between-times -- is all but ignored in the interpretation.
Preaching Possibilities
Today's lesson from the Hebrew scriptures deals with one of the shiftiest, sneakiest, and most unsavory characters in all of scripture. His name, of course, is Jacob.
It may sound strange, to some, to hear Jacob described as "shifty," "sneaky," "unsavory." Jacob, after all, is a patriarch: calling him names seems like the spiritual equivalent of running down Mom or apple pie! Over and over, the Bible invokes his name with honor: "the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob." If Israel had a Mount Rushmore, Jacob's head would be carved on it. His name, joined with those of his father and grandfather, forms a trinity of faithfulness.
Yet, if we take a good look at his story in the Bible, we'll see that it wasn't always that way.
The earliest thing we hear about Jacob is the story of his birth (which happens to have been last Sunday's Old Testament lesson). Jacob is a twin, born moments after his older brother Esau. As the midwife pulls Jacob from the womb, she finds him hanging onto the heel of his brother.
That image is so typical of the crafty Jacob. That's the way it will always be with him and his older brother: Esau out in front, and Jacob scheming to get even.
It's like that when Jacob cheats his brother out of the "birthright" -- Esau's inheritance as firstborn. Esau is "a skillful hunter," the Bible says, "a man of the field." Jacob, on the other hand, is "a quiet man, living in tents." Esau's hands are hard and calloused from physical labor; Jacob's are smooth and milky white from years of soft living in the camp. If Jacob and Esau were characters in a Western, Esau would be the hard-bitten trailmaster, wise in the ways of nature but tongue-tied and clumsy in town. Jacob, on the other hand, would be the smooth-talking riverboat gambler.
One day, Esau drags himself back from a long day of hunting, bringing along with him a roaring hunger. All the time Esau's been out foraging for meat, Jacob's been home, carefully simmering a lentil stew, stirring in the most appetizing herbs and spices. The aroma of that stew reaches Esau just as he's coming into camp. As soon as he smells it, he knows he has to have some.
"Not so fast," Jacob says. "You've got to pay the price."
Jacob's asking price is the birthright -- and, Esau, amazingly, agrees. Jacob has just purchased the right to his older brother's inheritance for the price of a bowl of stew. Pretty shrewd!
Yet, even though Jacob has won Esau's agreement, he still doesn't have the inheritance. Their father Isaac is still alive and, according to the customs of that day, Jacob's got one more thing to do: He's got to figure out some way to get his father's blessing.
In order to understand what's going on with this blessing business, we've got to understand a few things about the traditions of ancient Israel. A father's blessing, in those days, is more than a mere legal formality. It's got a mysterious, magical power all its own. A blessing is like an arrow shot from a bow: Once you let it go, you can't stop it in mid-flight. If Jacob can only get his father to lay hands on him and bless him, the inheritance will be his and his alone.
The opportunity arrives one day near the end of Isaac's life. Jacob's father is blind, and his health is failing. Isaac calls for his son Esau in order to pass on his paternal blessing. It is a solemn and holy moment, the handing on of the mantle of leadership from father to son. Jacob -- displaying contempt for his father's wishes -- sneaks into the room, wearing Esau's clothes. The blind Isaac reaches out to the son he thinks is Esau, feels the woolly coat, and confers the blessing on Jacob.
The fact that Isaac immediately realizes his mistake makes not a whit of difference. The arrow of the blessing has been released. Jacob is now the son through whom God's covenant will be carried out.
Jacob wins his blessing through lies and trickery and this presents a first-rate theological crisis for the people of Israel. Two generations before, God made a covenant with Abraham that his descendants would be numberless as the stars in the heavens. God demonstrated faithfulness to that covenant by causing Abraham's wife, Sarah, to conceive a child in her old age. Now, this black-sheep grandson of Abraham and Sarah threatens to scuttle the whole plan by putting himself first in the line of succession. How can there possibly exist such things as a covenant, and "God's chosen people," when a con artist like Jacob is permitted to push his way to the front of the line?
As odd as it may sound to our ears, the answer is that God's covenant triumphs anyway. It's kind of like the prophet Elijah on Mount Carmel -- remember that story? Elijah's having a contest with the prophets of Baal to see who can call down fire from heaven. Elijah sets up his pile of logs, just like the Baal-prophets, only he douses his woodpile with water, and digs a trench around it, so the whole campfire is sitting in a huge puddle. It is only then that Elijah calls down fire from heaven: demonstrating that his God can triumph over any obstacle.
The whole story of Jacob, which runs for many chapters in the book of Genesis, is one long illustration of the fact that nothing, but nothing can stop God's plan -- not even a shifty shyster like Jacob! As we get to know Jacob better, we take on a kind of grudging admiration for him. As crafty and as unprincipled as he is, he is at the same time very human. If God can work through somebody like him, maybe there's a place in God's plan even for the likes of us!
It is in the passage we read today that we see the first hint that God has chosen to work through Jacob anyway. This chapter of the story opens with Jacob on the run. Esau, enraged at his deceit, is planning to kill him. So, Jacob seeks refuge in a far country in the land of his uncle, Laban.
Jacob is in the wilderness, laid over in a spiritual no-man's-land, when he gives in to exhaustion and lays himself down to sleep. Weary from running, tired of constantly looking over his shoulder, Jacob reaches out and pulls over a large stone to use as a pillow. Resting his head on the stone, he gazes up into the starry heavens. Maybe, as he does, he remembers God's promise to his grandfather Abraham -- the promise of descendants numberless as the stars. Maybe Jacob wonders, in his hollow heart, how this promise will ever come true now that the heir of the covenant is a fugitive in the wilderness.
That night, Jacob has a dream. He dreams there is a ladder -- or maybe it's a stairway or a ramp, the Hebrew is unclear -- stretching from earth to heaven. Up and down the ladder climb the angels of God. Then, the Lord stands before Jacob and promises to him numberless descendants, offspring "like the dust of the earth."
"Know that I am with you," God says, "and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you."
Jacob awakens to the golden glow of sunrise in the eastern sky, and he remembers his dream. "Surely the Lord is in this place," he says, "and I did not know it!" Jacob erects a monument, a shrine, in that place -- a pile of stones, most likely, like the cairns that hikers build to mark a trail in the mountains. He calls the place "Bethel," "house of God."
There may be times in our lives when we, too, have a stone for a pillow, times of painful transition, of moving from one life-passage to another. Maybe the feelings of despair that tumble down upon us so naturally in such times are tied to the death of someone close, or to the loss of a job, or to the puncturing of a cherished dream.
In such times, we may very well find ourselves, like Jacob, wondering whether God is still there, whether we have a place in God's plan and indeed, whether God has a plan at all. As the sun goes down and the gloom of night gathers like a crouching beast of prey, we fill our minds with anxieties and fears, fantasies of impending disaster. We imagine the worst.
But then, something happens. Something reminds us God is still here, we are Christ's disciples, we too are children of the covenant, bound to the Lord of heaven and earth as adopted children (as Paul reminds us in this morning's passage from Romans). "Surely," we say to ourselves, "the Lord is in this place -- and I did not know it!"
Prayer For The Day
Surely, Lord, you are in this place,
the place where your people gather to worship.
Yet, just as surely, you are in other places as well:
the places of our suffering,
our striving,
our joys and our sorrows.
Sharpen our wits,
so we may be attentive to your nearness.
Remind us that we, too,
are children of your covenant. Amen.
To Illustrate
The ancient Greeks told the myth of Theseus: A prince condemned to enter the fearsome maze called "Labyrinth." The Labyrinth had been built to house the Minotaur, a ferocious monster that looked like a man with a bull's head. Even if Theseus succeeded in killing the Minotaur, he might never find his way out of the enchanted maze.
So what does Theseus do? He carries with him a ball of string, and ties one end of it to the entrance of the Labyrinth. After he reaches the center and slays the monster, he traces the string back to the entrance, and safety.
There are places in life where we discover -- perhaps to our amazement, but certainly to our joy -- that God is indeed present. We cannot relive the same experience later, but we can -- like Jacob with his cairn of stones and Theseus with his ball of twine -- mark the place and come back to it in our memory. Such memories stand us in good stead, as the perils of life overtake us.
***
One of the greatest of the Doonesbury cartoons is a little series that cleverly skewers those who try too hard to make the church relevant to modern life.
The Little Church of Walden is pastored by the Reverend Scott Sloane. Back when Scott Sloane first appeared in Doonesbury, he was a college campus minister, "the fighting young priest who can talk to the young." As the comic strip's characters graduated from Walden College back in the '70s, Scott went with them, to help them form a rustic commune where they all lived for a few years. Eventually, they all leave the commune and get real jobs -- even the Reverend Scott Sloane (although, in a certain sense, he never left). Scott stays on in that location -- and, by the time the 1990s roll around, the Walden Commune has morphed into the Little Church of Walden.
In this particular comic strip, Michael Doonesbury is back for a visit. He's asking Scott to tell the story of how his church got started.
"Aerobics," is the minister's reply.
"Aerobics?"
"I needed something to attract folks from the community. The focus group suggested an aerobics class. It worked, so I added yoga and bingo, and then a few 12-step programs, then we opened a soup kitchen, which led to cooking lessons. Before I knew it, I had my own denomination."
"So that's how religion spreads..." Michael muses, in reply.
In the second strip, Scott's giving Joanie Caucus a tour of his church. She hasn't been there for a while, so he's bringing her up to date on all the changes: "The old house is used for our spiritual wellness seminars and various 12-step recovery programs. In the new wings, we have the food court, a fitness center, and our interpretive dance studios."
Joanie wonders where, in that vast complex, the people worship. "On our website," Scott replies. "Keeps the heating bills down."
The final installment is a longer one from the Sunday comics. In it, Scott's talking with a couple, who are first-time visitors. He asks them what they're looking for in a church.
The husband replies with a question of his own: "Well, what's your basic approach here, Reverend? Is it traditional gospel?"
"In a way. I like to describe it as 12-step Christianity. Basically, I believe that we're all recovering sinners. My ministry is about overcoming denial. It's about recommitment, about redemption. It's all in the brochure there."
"Wait a minute!" says the husband, sounding suspicious. "Sinners, redemption -- doesn't that imply... guilt?"
"Well, yes, I do rely on the occasional disincentive to keep the flock from going astray. Guilt is part of that."
"I dunno," says the husband, turning to his wife. "There's so much negativity in the world as it is."
"That's right," she replies. "We're looking for a church that's supportive, a place where we can feel good about ourselves. I'm not sure the guilt thing works for us."
"On the other hand," muses the husband, paging through the glossy brochure, "you do offer racquetball."
"So do the Unitarians, honey," the wife shoots back. "Let's shop around some more."
No one raises the question of whether the Lord is in this place.
***
"How does one seek union with God?"
"The harder you seek, the more distance you create between him and you."
"So, what does one do about the distance?"
"Understand that it isn't there."
"Does that mean that God and I are one?"
"Not one. Not two."
"How is that possible?"
"The sun and its light, the ocean and the wave, the singer and his song -- not one. Not two."
-- Anthony DeMello
