SERMON FOR JUNE 13, 1999
Third Sunday after Pentecost
HEBREW TESTAMENT: “God’s Promise Will Be Fulfilled” ~ >Genesis 18:1-15; 21:1-7
by David L. Bartlett
based on Genesis 18:1-15
The wife and I were sitting around trying to celebrate our seventy-second wedding anniversary. It wasn’t going very well.
“Some gift,” said the wife. “Fourteen times you’ve given me a camelskin blanket for our wedding anniversary. Couldn’t you think of something more original?”
“After seventy-one anniversaries, it’s hard to be original,” I said.
“Seventy-two years,” said Sarah. “Who would have believed? When you think of what we’ve been through together!”
“Oh, come on,” I said. “It hasn’t been so bad.”
“Bad!” said Sarah. “Bad is the understatement of the year. Think of it, Abraham. No sooner were we married than you decided it was time for us to leave home and go traveling. No time even for a honeymoon.”
“I didn’t decide,” I said. “God told me to.”
God!” said Sarah. “God! I’ve noticed two things about your God. Thing number one: God never lets me in on these plans. Thing number two: God always tells you to do just exactly what you want to do anyway.”
“Answer to both things,” I said. “Thing number one: God lets you in on these plans by having me tell you these plans.”
“Such a deal,” said Sarah.
“Thing number two: God does not always tell me to do just exactly what I want to do anyway. For example, in this case, I did not want to leave home, but God told me to, so I left.”
“Home,” said Sarah. “It’s been so long, I can hardly remember anymore. What was the name of that town?”
“Ur,” I said.
“Don’t hem and haw,” said Sarah. “Spit it out, man.”
“Ur,” I said
“Ur—uh--,” said Sarah. “Come on, don’t you remember?”
“Ur. Ur was the name of the town,” I said. “Ur of the Chaldees. And there we were, you and I, both very happy, really, both right at home doing what ever one used to do in Ur of the Chaldees. A place with special ties. Your parents…”
“I miss them,” said Sarah.
“My parents.”
“Them I don’t miss,” said Sarah.
“Your parents, my parents: all of the fond memories of where I wooed you and won you.”
“Such a deal,” said Sarah again.
There we were, both very much at home. Very content. Very secure. Neither of us ever wanting to move, then, WHAM!”
“Don’t yell,” said Sarah.
“I was just making a point,” I said. “WHAM! There was the voice of God, saying: ‘Go away from your country, and from your family, and from your father’s house, and I will make of you a great nation!’”
“Great nation,” said Sarah. “Great joke. You and me sitting out here all alone on our seventy-second wedding anniversary huddled under our fourteenth camelskin blanket. Some great nation!”
“WHAM!” I said again. “So what could I do?”
“Stay home like any sane man,” said Sarah. “Tell God you weren’t interested. Tell God you had more important things to do. Tell God you had less important things to do, but that you wanted to stay home. You should have listened to me.”
Sarah fell into a pout. I fell into remembering. Long ago, long ago, I’d come home and told her…
“God wants us to pack our bags and go,” I’d said.
“Go,” she’d said. “Go? Let me say three things about that. Thing number one: Why? Thing number two: Where? Thing number three: How?”
And I’d answered: “Thing number one: Why? Because God told us to. Thing number two: Where? To Canaan, to the Promised Land. Thing number three: How? By FAITH, Sarah, by FAITH. F-A-I-T-H.”
“By faith!” Sarah and said. “Will faith remove the blisters from my feet? Will faith keep us warm when the night is cold? Will faith make the long road short? Will faith help us enjoy talking to one another the whole long journey to Canaan?”
“Probably not,” I said. “But faith will get us there. Or better, God will get us there. We have to have faith. We have to trust in God. Put one foot after another, and trust in God.”
“Faith, Schmaith,” Sarah had said, but I noticed that she started packing her bags…
Sarah came out of her pout. She brought me abruptly back to the present, back to our anniversary.
“Abraham,” she said, “have you noticed this is all we ever do, now that we’re getting old? Tell stories, revive memories, reminisce?”
“It’s not a bad way to spend the time,” I said.
“But on our anniversary, Abraham! On our anniversary. Sitting here for the seventy-second year under the fourteenth camelskin blanket and going over the same old story for the eight hundred and forty-third time: ‘WHAM!’ said the Lord. ‘Go away from your country…’ I know it all by heart,” she said.
“I’m sorry if I bore you,” I said.
“Ah, well,” said Sarah. “It’s not your fault that this anniversary party is such a bust.”
She was quiet for a long time.
Then: “If only the children were here,” she said.
“We don’t have any children,” I said.
“You’re telling me,” said my wife. She turned away.
“It’s not my fault,” I said.
“That’s right,” she said. “Blame it all on me. Your mother was right. You should have married Rachel.”
“I’m not blaming it all on you,” I said.
“My mother was right,” said Sarah. “I should have married Caleb.”
“Caleb,” I began. “Caleb…”
Just then there were three loud knocks on the door: “WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!”
“Get the door,” I said to Sarah.
“Chauvinist,” she said, but she went to the door.
Sarah opened the door and said, “WOW!”
“Who is it?” I said.
“Three things,” said Sarah. “Thing number one: an angel. Thing number two: another angel. Thing number three: yet another angel.”
“How can you tell they’re angels?” I asked.
“How many people do you know who glow in the dark?” replied Sarah.
“Let them in, for heaven’s sake,” I said.
“For heaven’s sake,” said Sarah. “That’s a good one.” She began to giggle, but I looked sternly at her, and she opened the door.
In they came, angels all right. Wings and all.
“Peace,” said the First Angel.
“Be,” said the Second Angel.
“With you,” said the Third Angel.
Sarah curtsied and I bowed. For once we were both tongue-tied.
“We,” said the First Angel.
“Have come,” said the Second Angel.
“From God,” said the Third Angel.
Sarah found her tongue. “I’ll make some tea,” she said.
The angels came in and sat down on the couch, all in a row. Sarah beckoned me to the kitchen door. “Watch it,” she whispered. “They’ve come from God. And you know what happens whenever you get a message from God. Trouble; that’s what happens. TROUBLE.” She went into the kitchen and closed the door behind her.
“Abraham,” said the angels in unison, “we have a message for you.”
Then the angels all stood up, and again, in unison, they said: “Thus says the Lord, ‘Your wife, Sarah, will bear you a child. I will bless her, and she will be a mother of nations. Kings of peoples shall come from her.’”
The angels stopped speaking, and I heard a loud guffaw from behind the kitchen door, followed by muffled giggling. I pulled the door open, and Sarah stumbled into the room.
“You’ve been eavesdropping,” I said.
“Obviously,” said Sarah, still chuckling.
“Why are you laughing?” asked the angels.
“Four things,” said Sarah. “Thing number one: you said Abraham and I are going to have a son. Thing number two: Abraham is a hundred years old. Thing number three: I am ninety years old. Thing number four: nothing—if you get my meaning. Kaput. Zilch. No more hanky-panky and no more kids.”
The angels drew themselves to their full height. They seemed almost to reach to heaven.
“Three things,” said the angels, firmly.
“Thing number one:” said Angel Number One, “we bring you a message straight from God.”
“Thing number two:” said Angel Number Two, “nothing is too hard for God.”
“Thing number three:” said Angel Number Three, “you must have…”
Sarah interrupted with, “FAITH! I know, we must have faith. Well, you take the following message to your God. Three things. Thing number one: I’ve never seen You; so how can I have faith in You? Thing number two: I don’t know if You’re trustworthy; so how can I trust You? Thing number three…”
But the angels had vanished, and Sarah and I were left alone. She started sweeping feathers off the floor. She was crying.
“Sarah, Sarah, my love,” I said, “Sarah, my love, come here.”
We sat together on the couch, huddled under the camelskin blanket, very alone, a little afraid.
“Sarah,” I said, “Sarah, just think of it. What we’ve wanted—you and I. What we’ve longed for and prayed for—you and I. Now we shall have it—you and I; only …”
“Only?” said Sarah.
“Only we must have faith,” I said.
“Faith,” sighed Sarah. “You sound just like the angels: faith, faith, faith.”
“Faith,” I said. “Faith, Sarah. Then we’ll see. Oh, we’ll we how God will be faithful, too.”
“Think,” I said. “Sarah, think. A son. A son to cherish and teach and cling to. A son to pray daily you will not lose. A son to love and never to lose.”
“To lose,” said Sarah. “Of course to lose. From beginning to end, Abraham, everything. We’ve been asked to lose everything. To lose our homeland. To lose our family. To lose our dreams at the whim of God. Soon, God will ask us to lose our son. What then, Abraham? What if God asks us to lose our son?”
“Well, then, Sarah, we won’t lose faith. That’s the one thing we will not lose. What ever God brings, we will not lose faith.”
Sarah was crying. I brought her near. Sarah was crying. I felt her close and dear—warmer and dearer, warmer and nearer, finer than she had seemed for years and years, and years.
“We won’t lose faith, Sarah,” I said. “Sarah, my love. My love.”