She was the kind of woman who wouldn’t hesitate to tell you where you stood, but that hadn’t always been the case.
After only a few months on the road with Abraham, after leaving behind the stability of home for the constant travel, the bleating of the goats and sheep all night long, the circling scavengers, the incessant chatter of servants, not to mention her husband’s outlandish dreams and half-baked schemes, Sarah had given up trying to smooth things over.
After years of marriage, the little things tend to add up, and at some point you realise that you have to decide: what am I willing to put up with, and where am I gonna draw the line? That realisation comes at different times for each of us.
At first it’s just the dishes in the sink, or the toilet seat left up, but then one day, on a never-ending road trip to God knows where, he’s passing you off as his beautiful younger sister. Before you know it, you’re being taken off to be absorbed into Pharoah’s harem in exchange for a bunch of camels. The harem part isn’t all that bad, but you’re still mad. Amongst the things that frustrate you (and there is a growing list), you know your worth in camels, and you know your husband traded you for far less than you’re worth.
Marriage can be complicated.
Sure, you love the guy. You’d do anything for him. But sometimes…sometimes…you think about how life would have been if you’d moved to the city, found a decent one bedroom apartment, and skipped out on the whole marriage game. The trouble is, before you get too far down that imaginary road, God afflicts the king with some dread disease, he releases you from passionate embrace, and you’re back with your first husband-slash-brother again.
Like I said, marriage can be complicated.
Far more complicated than those who demand a return to so-called biblical marriage would want us to believe, anyway. The biblical model of marriage! Which one?
You’re back to holey socks and threadbare sweaters, and his sad attempt at covering up the bald spot with a combover. Let’s not forget the ever-growing list of half-finished projects in the workshop. And then…and then one day he’s into some bizarro midlife crisis. Out of nowhere, as if grasping for significance, he tells you about a dream where he’ll be the father to the nations.
This from a guy who can’t even measure his wife’s worth in camels.
(Happy Father’s Day, by the way).
Abraham’s had this vision, he says. A vision that God will make his descendants as plentiful as the stars in the sky, the sand in the desert.
The only problem is, and you’ve known this for years, he’s not the most reliable lover. You’ve been on the road for awhile after moving out of your parent’s basement at age 75.
He was getting upset with himself, but in those days, viagra was hard to come by, so you take the blame on yourself—it was your role after all—saying that the Lord had prevented you from having children.
Maybe he’d rather give it a try with the slave girl, you say. You justify it, reminding him that the slave is his property. If she has a baby (and you know it’s impossible), it’ll be counted as his.
He’s old and infertile, a little insecure, but he’s a good man. You’re making a life for yourselves, you’re doing it your way. He’s still pretty cute, and laughs at all of your jokes. All in all, it’s been a good life.
So your husband and the slave girl, they do as you ask. Nine months later, Hagar gives birth to Ismael. And your servant girl, she starts acting important. #Blessed. Rubs your nose in it, and you’re angry. You’re protective. Of yourself. Of your place in this family. Of your future. Of your safety. Perhaps you shouldn’t be. He’s not going to leave you now. But you worry. You worry and you’re angry.
You’re angry, all right. You know it was your idea, but it’s not gone according to plan. Perhaps you thought nothing would happen. Perhaps you thought it had everything to do with him, and nothing to do with you. And so you offered the servant up, assuming the pleasure you’d been denied would be denied her too. You were wrong. And you blame her for it.
And that’s when you stop smoothing things over.
At last you speak your truth. You tell it like it is. Your jokes take a bit more of a caustic turn, and your friends, they can’t get enough. You start moonlighting at the Oasis comedy clubs whenever your caravan pulls up. And the locals like you too. You gain a reputation. You play the circuit. You’re the ancient Near East’s Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. Amazon Prime has yet to give you your own series, but you’re sure they’ll be calling soon. In the meantime, you write more material, you refine your act, and get ready for your big break. If Miriam can get her own show, what's stopping you?
Ten years pass. Ten years! And that’s when the Lord appears by the oaks of Mamre—three strangers emerging from the sandstorm as some sort of trinitarian mirage. Abraham, startled from his nap, wipes the drool from his lips, puts the dentures back in, stammers a bit, and invites them in. A cup of cold water, and some cakes. Which, by the way, you’ll have to cook up.
For whatever reason he tries to micromanage the recipe. Three portions of flour, eh? Is that how it’s done? He’s great at barbecuing, but when’s the last time he baked? No matter. You prepare the bread, the servant prepares the veal, and Abraham emerges in his finest robes to present the strangers with a show of opulence and generosity.
And that’s when they ask about you. You’re listening from within the tent. And let’s be honest, the technology hasn’t advanced much in the last 4000 years. It may have been animal hides then, and Nylon now, but neither one is soundproof. Even a whispered conversation could be heard clear as a bell. And the snoring? You could hear the snoring from one end of camp to the other.
The Lord is there, and They ask about you, but you are not summoned. And so you continue to listen as these strangers talk about you and your sex life. He had just about given up on that mid-life crisis, and now they stoke the fire once again. Father to the Nations! Dear Lord! Have they gone to bed with him in the last 20 years? Not gonna happen.
Not gonna happen, but it’s good material. It’s great, in fact, and it will be perfect for the new bit you’ve been wanting to introduce at your next show. As your mind turns it all over, a smile spreads over your face. Your eyes light up. And you snicker to yourself.
After all you’ve been through, the love is still there, but it's unlikely he’s going to rise to the occasion. What’re the chances you’ll experience that pleasure again?
And the Lord says to Abraham, Why did Sarah laugh?
Abraham stays strangely silent, eyes downcast.
And the Lord says, nothing is impossible for God.
I love the Bible, perhaps especially because it presents humanity with all of its ambiguity, with all of its complexity, with all of its foibles.
Abraham and Sarah do go on to have children, they become parents to a nation who will become known as the Hebrews, the Israelites. They too are our forebears, our Matriarch and Patriarch, our ancestors, for we are grafted into their family as well. And they are just as human and just as complicated and just as ambiguous as anyone in your immediate family, your family tree.
Which is, I think, a good reminder.
It’s a good reminder that the stories of God and God’s people are stories of a good and faithful God who intentionally enters into relationship with us, just as we are. A God who chooses you, who chooses me, who chooses all of us together to embody the divine life for the world.
We, like Abraham and Sarah are called to be a blessing. Not some day when we’re perfect or holy or we’ve got everything together. Not some day when we get over our skepticism or our sarcastic humour or our particular predilections. Not some future day when we know our spouse’s worth in camels, or finally realise we shouldn’t lie about our relationship, let alone trade our spouse based on a local politician’s first, low-ball offer.
As I’ve been thinking about Abraham and Sarah this week, I’ve started to reflect on my own spiritual ancestors.
The ones in the Bible, sure, but also those more recent, those who have mentored me, who have mentored me in the faith. My parents, they’re on the list, but so are a number of other characters who have taught me something of what God is like. How to follow in the ways of Jesus. I think of Zane, and Brad. I think of Luke. I think of my Aunt Tena. I think of people I’ve never met, like my grandparents who, as Mennonite Farmers, fled the Ukraine 100 years ago, and who came to this land with little more than their faith and a few possessions. I think of Mrs. Turner, my Sunday School teacher when I was a kid, who got me to memorize large chunks of the bible. I think of Brian, my professor and mentor, who convinced me to preach my first sermon all those years ago. I think of Marnie, a former colleague of mine, and friends like Mary Ann, and Veronica too.
I wonder who those people are for you. Who are your Spiritual Ancestors? What did they teach you, and what lessons are you still learning that they taught?
Having reflected on this question, another wondering emerges.
- What kind of Ancestors will we be?
- What kind of legacy will we leave? And, perhaps more interestingly (to me at least)
- What stories will they tell of us?
Sure, Andrew is a little weird, but he loved his family. He loved the congregations he served. He loved God with his whole heart, he wrestled with his faith, demanding that he receive a blessing. He messed things up more than he’d like to admit, but he sought to live a life of fidelity to God. But on Father’s day in 2023, his youngest son gave him a card that reminds us a little bit of what he’s like.
Like those who have gone before, we are not — we won’t be — perfect. This isn’t a question about shame or regret. It’s one about introspection.
What legacy do we want to leave—spiritually and otherwise for those who come next? And, how will people know?
They’ll know through the way we live, absolutely. But they’ll also know through the values. The stories. All the important stuff we pass along. Not just to our immediate family, but in relationship to all whom we meet. Through the way we speak about God’s faithfulness to us and all humanity. Through the stories we tell of God’s faithfulness to people as imperfect as Abraham and Sarah. As imperfect as we ourselves are.
For indeed, we are all imperfect. We are all human. AND we are all God’s beloved, created in God’s own image. Called from the dawning of Creation, covenanted in baptism, confirmed and justified in faith, and invited to respond in faithfulness.
Through prayer and worship, through self-giving love, through lives lived to make the world a better place for our neighbours, for God’s beloved Creation, from generation to generation. Through our ongoing openness to transformation through encounter with Christ, and through the ways we bravely bear witnenss to these things.
And so this week, I was reminded. If we are to be faithful, such faithfulness starts here. It starts in this place, and it starts at this table. It starts with our participation in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, through this sacrament. For us as Christians, this is the starting point. Living lives transformed by Jesus as we take his life into ours. As we are nourished by this food, this body and blood to live—as he lives—for the life of the world.
It starts here, and it ripples forth in how we live with one another, how we disagree with one another, how we find resolution in our conflict, in how we love one another across our differences. It starts here, living lives of faith informed by our ancestors, as we ourselves become ancestors of all that is to come, that those who follow may be as numerous as the sand in the desert, and the stars in the sky.
