Author’s Note: This was originally posted February 24, 2021, when the Genesis text served as the Old Testament reading. There are a few references below to COVID-19, which was raging through the world three years ago. Otherwise, however, I pray this meditation speaks to your world and that of your neighbor.
Abraham fell facedown; he laughed and said to himself, “Will a son be born to a man a hundred years old? Will Sarah bear a child at the age of ninety?” And Abraham said to God, “If only Ishmael might live under your blessing!” [Genesis 17:17-18, the verses that follow the Old Testament reading for the Second Sunday in Lent, Year B, RCL, NIV].
Abram was 75 years old when Yahweh told him that from him would spring forth a great nation that would bless all the peoples on earth [Genesis 12:1-3]. Of course, that seemed utterly impossible to Abram. While he and his wife, Sarai, almost ten years Abram’s junior, were respected by their friends and neighbors, they were childless. In that day and time, if a couple was childless, that meant they were cursed.
For more than 10 years after Yahweh’s promise, Abram and Sarai often talked about how impossible it all seemed. Were they really to be the parents of a large and respected nation? Didn’t that process begin with a son? Yahweh sure seemed to be taking his time. It all seemed so impossible.
And so, Sarai thought to herself, “If Yahweh won’t act to fulfill his promise, perhaps I can come up with an alternative solution.” Sarai suggested that Abram become “better acquainted” with Sarai’s servant Hagar. What harm could come from that? And so, when Abram was 86 years old, Hagar bore him a son that they named Ishmael. Ishmael wasn’t Sarai’s, of course, but at least he was Abram’s son. Now maybe Yahweh would get on with His promise.
By the time we get to this week’s Old Testament lesson [Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16], more years has passed. Abram is now 99 years old. Sarai is almost 90—still no children. Yahweh comes yet again to Abram and repeats what to Abram seems to be that same specious idea. This time, Yahweh becomes even more bold with his impossible promise. He adds a name change. Abram, which—rich in irony—means “great father,” would now be known as Abraham, “father of many.” Sarai (which means “princess”) gets a new name as well. She’ll be known as Sarah (“princess of many”).
Abraham must have thought that all this had to be a wicked joke on Yahweh’s part. In the verse that follows the ending of this week’s lesson, Abraham, having heard the promise from Yahweh yet again, falls facedown on the ground and starts laughing. He says to himself, “Will a son be born to a man a hundred years old? Will Sarah bear a child at the age of ninety?” [Gen. 17:17]. Abraham suggests that Yahweh should be more practical. He reminds Yahweh that they have a bird in the hand—Ishmael [Gen. 17:18].
Yahweh reminds Abraham that Ishmael will be blessed—yes—but Ishmael is actually a threat to Yahweh’s promise. With Ishmael, Abraham need no longer believe in Yahweh’s word. With Ishmael, Abraham can think he can forge his own future. Abraham, the father of faith, is here shown to be the unfaithful one, unable to trust, and willing to rely on an alternative to the promise.
Well, if Abraham thinks all this is so funny, Yahweh has at least one more surprise. Not only will Sarai’s name be changed, not only will she conceive and bear a son, but that son is to be given a name befitting his special circumstances. He will be known as “Isaac,” which means “he laughed.” The “he” is marvelously nuanced here. Might “he” be the boy, when he finds out his mother gave birth to him at 90? Might “he” be Abraham, who laughed in the face of Yahweh? Or indeed, might “he” be Yahweh himself? For Yahweh always has the last laugh.
Believing in impossible things—don’t be silly? The father looks at the faded photo of his child and wonders when their slide from each other began. Had he been too firm when the child was young? Had he not been firm enough? Could the two ever be reconciled? Reconciliation seems so impossible. “If only ….”
Could she ever be forgiven? Eight years earlier, reeling from a self-inflicted crisis, she had lashed out at her father. Feeling the enormity of her own pain and disappointment, she had sought to inflict the same on him. Her words—the last words they had exchanged—had been so cruel, so vicious, she couldn’t believe that they had been emitted from her mouth. She thought to herself, “What do they say about words? Oh yes, spent arrows, they are. ‘Once launched, they cannot be pulled back.’” Might time be turned back to that fateful day, to the moment before her horrible words. It all seemed so impossible. “If only ….”
The lump in her breast had scared her. As she awaited the results of the biopsy, she felt in her heart that the news would not be good. She thought to herself, “How much of your life have you wasted? How many feet have you stepped on?”
Indeed, she’d always reached for the brass ring on the merry-go-round. She’d even pulled it free and made it her own. Her bank account was full and yet, her life was empty. “Success” had been so alluring. Now, she might only have a few more months. Could real meaning find its way to her when she had so successfully avoided it for so long? It all seemed so impossible. “If only ….”
Believing in impossible things is difficult, particularly when so many of us are so skilled in constructing alternative plans and schemes that are altogether quite “possible.” We tell ourselves that that we can control this alternate, possible world. Or, at least we delude ourselves into thinking we can. We tell ourselves that when COVID subsides, we can get back to “normal.” Bible study, prayer, contemplation, checking on neighbors (who is my neighbor?)—they’re all so difficult in these times of infectious disease, but when “all this is over,” when the kids are back in school, when we can return to church, when we can greet each other without masking our smiles, then we’ll try to allow our Lord a bit more time within our busy lives. We’ll do better, we promise. We rationalize, “Soon, things will get turned around. It’s just that right now, with all that’s going on, it’s impossible.”
That is what is so remarkable, and so difficult, about Lent. From Ash Wednesday through Good Friday, we’re reminded to alter our gaze and behold a cross. And yet, for so many of us, the cross is the ultimate obstacle to realizing the promises of YHWH. We know from Isaiah’s words that Yahweh has promised a redeemer. The prophet Amos assures us that justice will “roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” [Amos 5:24]. It all seems so impossible. With a million unborn to be dispatched in America during 2021, that day of righteousness seems so far from today, so impossible to see and to experience.
Can Yahweh’s kingdom really be built upon a redeemer who will be executed by the secular powers around us? How can someone—anyone, even Jesus of Nazareth—be raised from the dead? It sounds every bit as impossible as a 90-year-old woman presenting her 100-year-old husband with a laughing baby!
When we see a Master who refuses to strike back, who instead turns his cheek, who says to give up not only one’s shirt, but one’s cloak as well, a Shepherd who abandons the 99 to come after the one, who willingly gives up his sinless life for the likes of you and me, it all seems so impossible. When we hear that Jesus will be raised on the third day, that he has defeated Death itself, when scripture tells us he reigns in Heaven even as you read this paragraph, we don’t know whether to drop our heads in awe, or fall on the ground facedown laughing, like Abraham before us, for surely all this seems so much like an impossible promise. It sounds like something out of Alice in Wonderland.
Alice laughed: “There’s no use trying,” she said; “one can’t believe impossible things.”
“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was younger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast [Alice in Wonderland].
What about you?
Be First to Comment