In an old episode of ER, Doctor Peter Benton is sitting in a clinic waiting for a DNA test to determine paternity in a disputed custody issue. The clinician comes in to take the test, and says to him: "This won't hurt a bit." Technically what she says is true…she is simply swabbing the inside of his check with a cotton swab. In a very matter of fact way, this is not a big deal procedure to her, she proceeds with the test. However the camera shows just how difficult the procedure is for Benton, how much he wishes he wasn't there, how much he wishes he was not in this position. The matter of fact technician has no idea the stakes that this test represents…for it may mean Benton loses the child he has been raising from birth as his own.
I am reminded of this scene in reading the text from Genesis this morning. It is presented as a very matter of fact event. Abraham, go take this son of yours…this long awaited son…bring him up to the mountain and offer him as a sacrifice. It is akin to the lab technician saying in her dispassionate voice: "This won't hurt a bit." There are no feelings recorded in the story, Sarah isn't even mentioned. When I first heard this story in Sunday School it was presented as a wonderful story of a faithful person. Abraham was willing to listen without question and obey. And indeed those who heard this story during the time of exile would have related to the idea of obedience…after all it was their disobedience that landed them in Babylon. They also need reminders that God would keep his promise. Even today some of this runs through the story. But as the years go by I question more and more this story. What kind of God is this giving this terrible command?! It is a horrible story, yet not one to be discarded simply because we don't like it. As I continue to wrestle with this story it seems to me that this text is not so much about faith and obedience and terror…it is more about the brokenness of humanity, of sacrifices that get made without our consent. It is about the cost of choices we make, and the cost of serving God.
Bishop William Willimon of the Alabama Annual Conference tells of talking about this story and church members wrestling with it in their own lives. He says: "But what does this old story mean to us?" I asked. "I daresay we moderns are a bit put off by the primitive notion that God would ask anyone to sacrifice his child like this. Can this ancient story have any significance for us?" "God still does," interrupted an older woman, hands nervously twitching in her lap. "He still does." "How?" I asked. Quietly she said, "We sent our son to college. He got an engineering degree, and he got involved in a fundamentalist church. He married a girl in the church; they had a baby, our only grandchild. Now he says God wants him to be a missionary and go to Lebanon. "Take our baby, too." She began to sob." ("On a Wild and Windy Mountain" Christian Century, March 16, 1983 pp. 237-8) We live a part of this story out in the competing needs and choices that face us. Poor decisions that lead to grave consequences for others…the choice of work time over family time, again and again we live out this story. Even for us moderns, sacrifice is a part of life. That is the terror side of our texts today.
On the other side is the text of welcome found in the gospel. It is a strange pairing of texts in the lectionary cycle…words of terror, words of welcome. It speaks to me of a God who is in the grit of our lives, of a God who is real, of a God who gets down and dirty with us. It is a terrible, wonderful God all wrapped up into one. It is about a God who demands everything and gives everything. God knows intimately the Abraham story and in Jesus calls us to a place, a home. And when all is said and done, isn't that really what we are searching for? A place of belonging, of welcome.
Two vignettes about coming to church. In First Things First, James Harnish tells this story: "A preacher was standing in the receiving line after his first service. Everyone was telling him what a 'nice' sermon it was, when a strange looking guy came through the line, grabbed his hand and said, 'Preacher, that was the worst sermon I've ever heard.' The pastor was a little surprised, but went right on shaking hands. A few minutes later the same guy came through the line again. This time he said, 'That sermon had nothing to do with the text.' Later, this same guy showed up for the third time, 'Preacher,' he said, 'if all your sermons are as boring as that one, I'm never coming back here again.' At that point a considerate member of the Staff Parish Relations Committee drew the pastor aside and said, 'Don't worry about him, he just repeats what he hears everyone else saying.'
William Muehl, professor emeritus at Yale Divinity school, spoke these famous words to graduating seminarians: "Always remember that most of the people you have on a Sunday morning almost decided not to come…to stay in bed and sleep instead."
I tell these two stories to ask the question what are we doing here, what do we hope to find? Our gospel text culminates the instructions on discipleship Jesus has been giving the disciples. They come after some harsh words of what life will bring for those who follow Jesus. He has told the disciples what they can expect on their journeys as he sends them out in his name; the violence and persecution they will encounter at the hands of others as they heal and preach. After the harsh words, Jesus ends with the encouragement we find this morning. There will be those who will receive them on their journeys, who will welcome them. And when this happens it will be a mutual relationship. Even the smallest acts of welcome are to be rewarded: "Whoever gives a cup of cold water."
Maybe if we scratch around enough at the reasons we come to church we will find at the core of them this idea of a terrible wonderful God, who welcomes us in the midst of everything in our lives. It is a God from whom we don't have to hide ourselves, indeed from whom we cannot hide ourselves. We don't have to be all together, and have life in a neat package. We come here with the terrible pains of our lives, the sacrifices we have made of ourselves and others, we bring our joys and our grieving. We gather to find a place and a home. But perhaps must of all we gather to welcome God, to host God and to receive God into our lives. In worship we are called to be those who receive God and to welcome God. In the midst of all of the reasons we come to church, the noble and not so noble reasons that is what is at the core of what do here-host the divine. In welcoming the littlest ones, we find God.
We have no way of knowing what Abraham was thinking as he and Isaac made the lonely trek up to the mountains of Moriah. What we do know is that God journeyed with them, and even in the midst of heartbreak and near tragedy, God received them. This is not a nice story, but it is a real story…fragile human relationships, broken trust, fractured families…it is all here. Jesus sent the disciples out to find places of welcome and to be welcoming, telling them it is in the tiniest acts of hospitality that God will be found.
And so we gather on this hot end of June Sunday with these two texts woven together. A text of terror to remind us that God is not tame; and that God wrestles with us even in the worst moments of our lives. And a text of welcome to remind us of a place, a family…a people who will receive us no matter who we are or where we've been or what we've done. As we are welcomed, we go forth to welcome others. "Whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones…truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward."