Genesis 22:1-14
This morning, we’re continuing our summer
sermon series: “What the Heck, Lord? God’s
Presence in Tough Times.” Today’s
reading may be the ultimate “what the heck, Lord?” story, one of the most
challenging there is: God commanding Abraham to sacrifice his beloved son,
Isaac, Abraham’s promise for the future.
Even with the story’s straightforward style,
you can’t miss the pathos and grief. For
no apparent reason, God tests Abraham, telling him, “Take your son, your only
son, Isaac, whom you love … and offer him … as a burnt offering” (Genesis
22:2). So, Abraham does – just as
obediently as he left his home and his tribe years before and set out for an
unknown land. Abraham and Isaac travel
three days to get to the place God has in mind – which means Abraham has three
days with his son to think about what God’s asking him to do. Isaac himself carries the wood for the sacrifice,
prefiguring Jesus bearing his cross. And
Isaac, in the innocence of childhood, asks the heart-rending question: Dad, we’ve
brought wood, torches, and a knife; but where’s “the lamb for a burnt offering?”
(22:7). Abraham must be sobbing as he
tries to explain what he can’t begin to understand, saying, “God himself will
provide the lamb for a burnt offering, my son” (22:8). Then Abraham prepares the altar and the wood,
and binds Isaac, and takes up the knife to kill him. But at the last minute, God intervenes and stops
Abraham. God now trusts Abraham’s trust,
knowing that he will withhold nothing of his heart. And God does provide what Abraham needs, trapping
a sacrificial animal in a nearby thicket and ensuring that Isaac will continue
the promised line of Abraham’s descendants.
Honestly, this story will strike many of
us as horrifying. How tortured must Abraham
have felt? How traumatized must Isaac have
been? We don’t get to hear God’s side of
the story, but God must have been uncertain about the depth of Abraham’s trust and
needed to test it. In addition, maybe Abraham
didn’t know the depth of Abraham’s trust, and God needed to show it to
him. But whatever the divine motivation,
we’re left knowing God is God, and we are not; and God doesn’t owe an explanation
to Abraham or to us. Though we may not
like it, the story argues that God does use life to test people and see how faithfully
we’ll respond.
I believe these past three and a half months
have been a time of testing for us. The
coronavirus pandemic has kept us unnaturally isolated, anxious, and afraid as we’ve
heard about illness, death, bankruptcy, unemployment – and no end in sight. In this same time, our nation’s open wound of
racism has continued to bleed; and we’re seeing more and more clearly just how
wide the gap is between White and Black narratives of our nation. All that may make us indignant, even
angry. But I think it also makes us
afraid. Maybe we’re afraid our nation will
never be the same. Maybe we’re afraid
our nation will never heal its wounds.
Maybe we’re afraid of what others may seek from us in the name of
justice. Maybe we’re afraid that the
promise of freedom for all people will simply be denied again. Whatever our take on these past weeks and
months, fear is a common denominator – and maybe an indicator that a test is
underway.
I think we’re in a time of testing as a congregation,
too. At our June Vestry meeting, reflecting
on the movement for racial justice, I asked the Vestry members to discuss a broader
question: How can St. Andrew’s embody a
Big Tent approach to faith while also articulating the values of our Episcopal
Church, like affirming that Black lives matter to God and that LGBTQ people are
made in God’s image and likeness? I wanted
the group to reflect on that broader question because we’re going to find it in
issue after issue. But some Vestry
members wanted to move from that general discussion to specific action, though
it wasn’t part of the agenda. One member
offered a resolution that we should proclaim publicly, by raising a flag, that
St. Andrew’s supports Pride Month, standing as an ally of LGBTQ people.
I can only speak directly to the last 15
years or so, but I would say St. Andrew’s has taken a relatively quick journey toward
LGBTQ inclusion. Of course, we’ve had
gay and lesbian members for a very long time, probably from the start; but it
wasn’t long ago that the prospect of two men or two women getting married here would
have been a non-starter. It wasn’t long
ago that our diocese didn’t ordain partnered or married LGBTQ people. That journey has been way too slow for some
of us and way too fast for others. Now, at
our June meeting, several Vestry members were asking to continue the journey,
moving St. Andrew’s from inclusion to public alliance – hence, the proposal to
put up a flag for Pride Month.
This unplanned conversation was fraught,
but it also was respectful and rich. Wisely,
we ended up tabling the resolution to allow more time for conversation, thought,
and prayer. We’ll return to the topic
next month, but – at the end of the day, the decision about a Pride flag falls
to me. In the Church canons, our
governing laws, ultimate responsibility for church property, including signs
and flags, rests with a parish’s rector.
So, in the Vestry meeting, I could have simply called the resolution out
of order and proceeded with the agenda.
Some of you might be thinking that’s exactly what I should have
done, and maybe you’re right. But if you
know me, you know I typically don’t lead that way. From the beginning of my time with you, I’ve
been preaching Jesus’ call to love one another, manifested in a leadership culture
of collaboration. Still, the canons make
it clear that, ultimately, the decision to put up a flag for Pride Month would
be mine.
So, if I were following the model of the rector
as king, what would I do? I would put a Pride
Month sign in the churchyard. It
probably doesn’t surprise you that my theology takes me there. Eight years ago, as priest-in-charge, I stood
here and told you I would preside at the marriages of LGBTQ people, if the Church
and the state gave me authority to do that.
They both did, and we have. I’ve
always said we will hire the most qualified applicants for jobs here, and we
have. We’ve been blessed by the ministry
and leadership of faithful LGBTQ people, lay and ordained. I’m grateful for the journey we’ve taken to
live into our Episcopal value that “all means all.” So, if I were acting as king, we would communicate
that value of “all means all” beyond the awareness of our St. Andrew’s family.
And … here’s where the testing comes. “All means all” isn’t the only Episcopal
value I hold dear or that we strive to practice here. I also treasure the Big Tent – the vision
that faithful people can disagree in their theology, politics, and social
positions and still know they share something deeper. This is part of our denominational DNA from the
days of Queen Elizabeth I, who “settled” the bloody Protestant and Catholic disagreements
in the 1500s by saying English people would worship in a common way, regardless
of whether they agreed. Common prayer is
a big part of what it’s meant to be Episcopalian. And because praying shapes believing, our history
of common prayer has shaped us to be Christians who now choose to gather
in difference, whether that’s gathering at this altar for Eucharist or gathering
around a table for summertime BLTs.
Well, I’ll tell you what: Not gathering like that hasn’t done us
any favors. Part of the test we’re
facing in this moment – one so obvious that we may miss it – has been our inability
to gather around an altar or a table. As
Scripture says, “It is not good for humans to be alone” (Genesis 2:18). We haven’t gathered as the Body of Christ since
March 15. And, of course, our
disconnection doesn’t stop with the life of the church. We’ve been stumbling through how to keep distance
from each other for months now; and though some restrictions have eased, life just
isn’t what it was. Nor will it be, at
least not until we find the Holy Grail of a coronavirus vaccine.
So, I think this time is a test for
us, and here’s the question I hear God asking:
How deeply will we trust that God will provide the wherewithal for us to
hold onto our core values when the world wants to tear us apart?
In this period of testing, maybe we each
have an “Isaac” that God is asking us to lay on the altar of sacrifice. Maybe we each have something with which God
has blessed us, nurtured us, inspired us – and now, we fear that forces beyond
our control could take that blessing away. Maybe it’s a son who’s at risk in a traffic
stop. Maybe it’s the sense of your full
humanity that a single Supreme Court reversal could take down. Maybe it’s the identity of our nation as a
force for good. Maybe it’s the safety of
a polite church culture that’s protected us from disagreements. Maybe it’s freedom you thought the Constitution
guaranteed but now you sense is eroding. What’s your Isaac? Whether it’s about safety, or identity, or freedom,
what do you fear may be taken away from you?
What would be the hardest thing for you to bring to the altar of
sacrifice and trust that God will provide what you need anyway?
I’ll tell you what I fear losing most, in
terms of my life as your rector. I fear
losing this community as I’ve known it.
I fear losing people from both ends of the political and social spectrum
because I love the people at both ends of the political and social
spectrum. I fear losing the Big
Tent. The Big Tent is my Isaac. And now, I think God’s asking me to bind up
the Big Tent, place it on the the altar, and allow God to do with it what God
will.
The Big Tent is not an easy thing for me
to offer up. That approach to church has
been a true blessing for centuries and one I’ve loved all my life; and God would
not lightly ask for it back. But I have
to bind up and offer my Isaac to show whether I truly trust that God will
provide. And I’ll tell you, that’s frightening.
Practically, what does that mean to put
the Big Tent on the altar and see what God does with it? Well, about the proposal to raise a Pride flag,
I’m going to ask the Vestry to consider the broader question first: How can we
live as the Big Tent in a day of deeper and deeper division? I don’t mean that as an intellectual exercise
but as a question to answer practically.
How do we proclaim the values of inclusion we embrace as The Episcopal
Church, and pray together even when we disagree, and all the
while follow this imperative: “First, love the person in front of you”? What steps, what process, might that take, regardless
of the presenting question? As we
journey in this boat that is St. Andrew’s Church, what will it look like when
we see someone swimming toward us, looking for a hand to help him into the boat,
and then see on his shirt whatever offends you most – maybe a Confederate flag
or maybe an Antifa symbol? Can we learn
to extend a hand, and bring that person into the boat, and sit next to him anyway,
and journey together toward heaven’s shore?
So, we’re going to build a process for being
the Big Tent in a day when the world needs to know what our church does
stand for. Again, regardless of what
process we create, a decision to take a public stance on something ultimately will
be mine because the canons say so. But I
think, given the world in which we find ourselves, and the range of passion and
giftedness among the people of this church, we’ll do a better job following
Jesus if we have more opportunity to listen deeply to each other, not
less, and if we do that through a process that’s dependable, fair, and
clear.
So, I ask your prayers as we move forward in
that work. The truth is, I don’t know exactly
what the Big Tent will look like once we’ve trusted God enough to offer it
up. But I do know this: God makes good
on divine promises. Even when we’re
frightened, even when we’re tested, even when God asks us to offer what we
thought would root us forever – God keeps God’s word. When we offer in sacrifice what we most hold
dear, God doesn’t let the fire be lit. Instead,
we see blessing we couldn’t have seen otherwise in the midst of the crisis: What
we treasure is strengthened for God’s purposes, and our trust just grows deeper
as we see God does provide precisely what we need.
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