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It’s been twenty years or more since Joseph last saw his family – that fateful day when his brothers sold him into slavery.  In that time, a lot has happened for Joseph.  He’s become an important man, second only to Pharoah himself.  He has his own slaves working for him now, as he governs Egypt on behalf of Pharoah.

Meanwhile, not a lot has changed for his family, still herding livestock around the region – that is until recently.  Now this drought has gone on for a few years, and we know here in Australia the damage that drought can do.  The livestock are mostly gone, and Joseph’s family are probably getting desperate.  But they’ve heard word that Egypt has grain for sale. 

So now the brothers head to Egypt; the tables have turned, and they need Joseph’s help.  These same brothers who sold Jospeh into slavery don’t recognise the man he has become, the important official standing before them.  And so Jospeh hatches a plan.  First of all, Joseph wants to see his younger brother, Benjamin, the only brother who wasn’t part of the slavery plot many years prior, and Joseph’s only full-blood brother, Rachel’s other son.  So, Joseph schemes a way for Benjamin to come to Egypt.

But then once he’s there, Joseph also plots for a way to make Benjamin look guilty.  He wants to see if his older brothers will abandon Benjamin as easily as they abandoned Joseph.  He wants to see them fight for the life of their youngest brother the way they should have fought for Joseph all those years ago.

And they do.  When Joseph threatens to make Benjamin a slave, Judah speaks up and offers himself into slavery in place of Benjamin.  It’s at that point that Joseph reveals who he is and the brothers are reconciled.

That’s what our story for today is about (Genesis 45:1-15).  It’s a story of reconciliation between brothers.  It’s a story of reconciliation after many years of separation caused by abuse and violence.  And in that reconciliation, a family is reunited, and it becomes a story of great joy and also great prosperity.

But there’s a few things I notice about this story.  The first is that Joseph has been the governor of Egypt for about ten years or so at this point.  He has had a position of wealth and authority for quite some time.  He has easily had the capacity to find out what’s been happening with his family, to let them know that he’s alive and well, to seek reconciliation.  But he doesn’t.  It seems he has decided to put his family out of his mind entirely after what his older brothers did to him.  And then, when he does see them again, he comes up with these schemes, to push them into defending their younger brother, the way older brothers are supposed to.

I wonder what would have happened if they hadn’t.  I wonder if Jospeh would have kept Benjamin in Egypt and let the rest of family starve.  Maybe.  After what his older brothers did to him, we can probably understand if he’d chosen that path.  After all, it’s very human to make reconciliation conditional.  I can’t forgive them unless they make amends.  I can’t forgive them until they admit what they’ve done.

There was a case in the US back in the 90s where a drunk driver caused a car accident that killed a girl.  The parents offered a settlement of $1 every week for the 18 years in the form of a cheque, with the girl’s name written at the bottom of the cheque.  They wanted this drunk driver to remember.  After a few years, it became too much for the young man, being reminded of his guilt on a weekly basis, and he stopped paying, offering instead a payout of the amount.  But the family took him back to court.  They wanted him to remember every day what he’d done just as they remembered their loss every day.  Their reconciliation had strong conditions attached.

Conversely, when we talk about the historical damage that was done to the indigenous people of this land, we might sometimes be tempted to say, “That happened in the past.  Can’t we move on?”  But it’s natural though for people who have been wronged to expect an apology, and some form of making amends, to put conditions around reconciliation.

So who decides when it is enough?  Should it be like in the story of the drunk driver, that reconciliation should happen once the driver feels he has given as much as he can give to make amends?  Or should it be like the family of the victim, deciding when the offender has made amends enough to satisfy their hurt and pain?

It is only natural to expect some sort of recompense, some show of restitution, some making amends, before forgiveness and restitution can take place.  In the Catholic Church, there is the concept of Penance.  It’s the idea that one must say certain prayers or do certain things before God can forgive them.  For many people in the Catholic Church, this makes sense.  It fits with their natural sense of justice.  It makes God’s forgiveness more real.  Conversely, I’ve heard some Protestant friends say that they can’t believe that God could forgive what they’ve done.  There’s this inherent sense of justice that says that forgiveness is impossible without some sort of recompense, without some making amends.

We see this in our Bible story.  Joseph needs to see his brothers fight for their younger brother, be willing to sacrifice themselves for the sake of a younger brother, before he can forgive them, before we get our happy ending.

When we compare this to the gospels, it’s what makes the story of Jesus so mind blowing, so incredible, so full of wonder.  After our prayer of confession earlier, we heard the words from John’s gospel: Christ came not to condemn the world but to save it.  In Paul’s letter to the Romans, he says that God demonstrates his own love for us in this, that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.  A few chapters later, Paul reminds his readers that nothing we can say or do can ever separate us from the love of God.

It’s like in the story of Mr Gumpy’s Outing that Susan read to us earlier (the story can be found at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqICulEBUwA).  In the story, they squabbled and bleated and teased and chased and kicked and flapped about and they all ended up tipping the whole boat over.  But does Mr Gumpy berate them or punish them or demand that they make amends?  No, he invites into a sacred meal and then he invites them back out onto the boat once more.

In the same way, God calls us to not squabble or flap about, but to be good and loving and gentle with each other.  But when we’re not, when we get it all wrong and even when we completely stuff it all up, God still forgives us, still invites us in, still calls us back out onto the boat.

When we have wronged someone else, it’s not our place to say when we have made amends enough.  But when we have wronged God, there is no need for making restitution.  God will continue to love us and forgive us no matter what.  And that is almost too wonderful to comprehend.

Thanks be to God.
Amen.

Have you ever noticed how many Disney movies have siblings who don’t get along?  Everything from the Lion King to Cinderella to Frozen, there are stories of siblings who are opposed to each other.  Ever since the story of Cain and Abel in the Bible, the stories of siblings at war with each other have captured our imagination.  I imagine these stories hold a special sway for us because they are relatable for so many of us and yet, at the same time, they go against the ideal.  Many of us have experienced conflict with our siblings, but we are also aware of the idyllic relationship that is supposed to exist between siblings.

Today, as we continue our journey through the stories of the forefathers of our faith, we come across another dysfunctional family dynamic with sibling rivalry at its core.  We’ve had the stories of Isaac and Ishmael, and of Jacob and Esau, and now we get this story (Genesis 37:1-28) of Joseph and his brothers.  Joseph dreams of one day being more important than his brothers and his parents, and is delighted to tell the rest of the family all about those dreams.

When I look at this story, there are two things that strike me quite strongly.  One is the overt show of favouritism shown toward Joseph.  His father, Jacob, fell in love with Rachel, but was tricked into marrying her sister Leah, and then had to work another seven years to earn Rachel’s hand in marriage.  In his efforts to produce an heir, Jacob has had sons via two concubines, and then by Leah and then finally by Rachel.  So although Joseph is one of the youngest, he is the first born son of his most beloved wife.  You can understand why Joseph is Jacob’s favourite.  You would think that Jacob would know better, having grown up in a family where there were definite displays of favouritism: he was obviously his mother’s favourite, while his brother, Esau, was their father’s favourite.  And those overt displays of favouritism led to all sorts of strife.  But Jacob has a favourite son, the firstborn of his one truly beloved wife, Rachel, and he lets it show.

The other thing that strikes me in this story is just how oblivious Jospeh is.  The way this story is told, he seems to have no idea that his brothers hold any sort of animosity toward him; he has no problem in telling them all his dreams about being more important than the rest of them.  There’s a certain naïve ignorance and lack of empathy in Joseph as he does this.

But then, this isn’t that surprising.  Often those of us in favoured positions don’t recognise it.  Those of us in favoured positions often assume that that’s just the way it is.  Historically, it was just assumed as normal that a black person should be a slave.  It wasn’t that white people were privileged; it’s just the way things were.  Rudyard Kipling even wrote about the burden of being white, having to look after all the people of colour.  Likewise, it was normal that a woman couldn’t be in leadership.  Being male wasn’t considered a privilege; it was a burden to have to lead.  It was normal that aboriginal people weren’t considered citizens; and it was the burden of the European settlers to look after them.  Do you see how those in privileged positions have refused to acknowledge that privilege?  And if you were to try to disrupt this status quo, you were considered a radical.  You were upsetting the way things are supposed to be.  What’s more you’re just making life more difficult for those who need to be looked after: people of colour, women, etc. 

Or worse, if it’s assumed that your favoured position is entirely just and fair, then any attempt to redress an imbalance is seen as showing favouritism to certain groups.  When we see efforts to redress imbalance, then sometimes it feels like favouritism, especially if we are part of the privileged ones.  For example, when gender quotas get introduced, the complaint often goes up that they should just get the best person for the job no matter what their gender, without realising how often it’s subconsciously assumed that the best person for the job will be male.

Several experiments have been done where employers were given identical resumes with only the name at the top being changed, and it was shown that most employers subconsciously favour male applicants, especially those with English-sounding names.  The resumes might be otherwise identical, but someone called Anthony is more likely to get an interview than someone called Yindi.

Why is this relevant to us?  Well, as the Christian church in Australia, we have had a favoured position in society.  I occasionally hear Christians expressing everything from disappointment through to outrage when our favoured position in society is challenged.  Some fellow Christians will get upset by Sunday sport or Sunday trading because Sunday should be for church; or by aussie rules being played on Good Friday; or when it’s suggested that Christian schools shouldn’t get as much government funding; or that schools no longer have Christian prayers as part of their assemblies; or when legislation prevents Christian organisations from discriminating; and I have to wonder about our assumed privilege.

In our other reading for today (Romans 10:12-15), we heard these words from the apostle Paul: For there is no distinction between Jew and Greek; the same Lord is Lord of all and is generous to all who call on him.  For, “Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”  It might be tempting to then say, based on this, that we should treat all people the same.  And yet, Paul spent the entirety of his ministry sharing the good news of Jesus with non-Jews.  He says there is no distinction in God between Jew and Greek, but he spent a lot more time and energy on the Greeks than the Jews; he showed favouritism.  Why?  Because the Jews were already hearing the story of Jesus.

The way that Paul dedicates his ministry to the Gentiles looks like favouritism and indeed, Paul was accused of showing favouritism, but when you see that one group is already in a favoured position, you see that it’s simply addressing the imbalance that exists.  In the ministry of Jesus, we see that Jesus was also criticised for showing favouritism: for spending too much time and energy on sinners and tax collectors, people who didn’t deserve it.  But these were the people who most needed that love from Jesus.

Later this year, we have a referendum coming and already I have heard some people talking about it as favouritism: that it is embedding one group as favoured over others.  When you’re in a privileged position, then attempts to redress that imbalance can seem like favouritism. 

What might it mean for us to recognise the different ways in which we are privileged and favoured?  Rather than being like Joseph, assuming that our favoured position is just natural, or being unaware of our privileged positions, what might it mean instead for us to follow the way of Paul, the way of Jesus, to redress the imbalance, and to show our love particularly to those who need it?

Amen.

Over the last few weeks, we’ve been looking at the flawed founders of our faith, the forefathers from the stories in Genesis, from Abraham who fathered great nations and through his descendants who carry the legacy of God’s covenant.  We’ve seen that these heroes of our faith are very fallible humans who sometimes do some terrible things.

One of the worst of these is Jacob.  At least when Abraham casts out his wife and son or when he attempts to sacrifice his other son, although these are abominable deeds, he at least gets reassurance or even instruction from God.  Jacob however lies and cheats purely out of his own selfish desires.  He has duped his older brother out of his birthright and he has deceived and tricked his mostly blind, dying father into thinking he was his older brother.  Jacob’s name literally means “heel” because it says he came out of the womb holding his twin brother’s heel.  But he is a heel.  He has deceived his father while his father was lying on his death bed; he’s cheated his brother out of his birthright.  He is cunning and deceptive.  He lives up to the name, Jacob, the heel.

Then, when we get to today’s story (Genesis 28:10-22), he is on the run for his life.  Esau swears that he’s going to kill Jacob as soon as their father is dead and, rather than facing his brother Esau after what he’s done, Jacob scarpers.  So now, Jacob is out in the wilderness, on the run and in fear for his life.  Remember that in the previous stories, they’ve talked about Esau being the hunter and Jacob as the indoorsy type.  But now he’s out in the wilderness, probably feeling hungry, scared, and it says he’s using a large stone as a pillow as he sleeps under the stars.

Part of me wonders at this point if Jacob is just getting what he deserves.  He has lied and he has cheated and now he’s scared, hungry, and alone in the wilderness, and he’s got no one to blame but himself.  There’s some sort of poetic justice to the story at this point.

In the psalms, they often describe God as a just God, rewarding the righteous and punishing the wicked, and some would look at Jacob’s predicament and say that this is exactly what God is doing.  But in this story, instead of God letting Jacob suffer for being such a heel with his family, God instead gives Jacob a vision of heaven, and then God makes a promise, a covenant, with this lying, cheating, low-life.  If our God was a truly just God, then Jacob has no right getting this promise from God.

But grace isn’t about getting what you deserve.  When we talk about God’s grace, we’re not talking about what we deserve.  Grace is not a right that we claim from God.  We don’t ever earn God’s grace, otherwise it wouldn’t be grace.  Grace is a gift from God, freely given.

Now some people find this idea unsettling.  We want to know that truly evil people go to hell.  Our sense of justice demands that evil people get punished.  But the grace of God doesn’t work that way.  In our reading from Matthew’s gospel (Matthew 13:24-30), there’s this parable that Jesus tells of a field of wheat but someone evil has planted weeds.  The workers are keen to pull out all the weeds, but the farmer says no.  He says that they might pull up good grain in the process: better to leave it until the harvest.

I reckon if it was one of us looking at Jacob, we’d see him as a weed.  He’s a liar and a cheat and a coward.  He’s no good.  We’d all be better off if he was removed now, before he does any more damage.  He’s just a weed.  But God, the wise farmer, says no.  In your efforts to pull up the weeds, you’re going to damage the wheat, because until it comes to the harvest, you can’t truly tell.

In fact, Jacob isn’t a weed.  In the end, he will turn out to be someone special.  And so God gives their promise to Jacob.  That’s what happens with grace.  After receiving this gift from God, freely given, who knows how you may grow?  In his letter to the Ephesians, Paul talks about it this way.  He says: For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God — not the result of works, so that no one may boast.  (Eph. 2:8-9)

We might look at the world sometimes and it’s like looking at a wheat field that’s full of weeds.  It’s corrupted and tragic and a far cry from what it should be.  But it’s not our job to pull the weeds.  Because where we might see someone who we think of as out and out evil, as just a weed taking up space in the field, I think God sees them as wheat surrounded by weeds: wheat who are growing amongst weeds of addiction or mental illness or loneliness or constant degradation, and so are having a harder time to bear grain: someone in need of grace.

It was Aleksander Solzhenitsyn who said that the line between good and evil is not between different types of people but the line between good and evil runs through every human heart.  It would be much easier if we could separate the evil people from the good people, but in fact each one of us is flawed, in need of God’s grace, and each one of us is also a wheat stalk capable of bearing grain.

And so it is with Jacob.  Jacob has grown up in a household that practised favouritism, where he was told that he was less than because his brother was seconds older than him, where he was encouraged to lie and deceive.  Yes, Jacob has done some bad stuff and he has to own that.  Yes, he’s grown up in a crap family, but it was him not his family that did what he did and he has to carry the responsibility of that and eventually he will have to deal with what he’s done – that’s next week’s story.  But in the meantime, God is still willing to offer their grace to Jacob, not because he’s earned it – he hasn’t – but because the love of God is not something that is earned.  The love of God is something that is freely given.

So God makes a promise to Jacob: that God will be God not just to his ancestors but to Jacob personally, that God will protect Jacob and keep him safe, that God will bring him back to this land that God has in store for him.  But this story is different to Abraham’s story.  Whereas Abraham and Isaac are simply passive recipients of God’s promise, Jacob responds to God’s grace, he responds to God’s promise, by making his own covenant with God, by making his own promises to God.  Jacob responds to the grace of God by making his own commitment to God.

He promises that God will be his God, and that he will give a tenth of everything he earns back to God.  And as part of this covenant, he turns the rock he was sleeping on into a monument to God, to remind himself and others that God is in that place, that the house of God exists there.  The grace of God is freely given with no strings attached, and yet it prompts a response.

I wonder how we might respond to God’s grace.  I wonder how the grace of God has changed our lives and how we have changed the way we live because of it.  I wonder if people might recognise that in us as a community.  I wonder if they may say the same thing about this place: “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.”  Is it through this community and how we have responded to the grace of God that people may get a glimpse of heaven?  I wonder.

But for now, I want to leave you with three things.

The first is that it’s not our job to decide who is worthy of God.  It’s not your job to tear someone apart because you think they’re just a weed.  Our job is to recognise the wheat, everyone we come across no matter what our preconceptions who is capable of bearing wheat.

The second thing is a reminder that the grace and love of God are not earned; it is freely given.  We experience God’s love and grace, despite what we’ve done, not because of it.  So we have no right to think of ourselves as better or more worthy.  God loves you and God’s grace is for you.  Don’t boast, don’t use it as a source of division, but rather be grateful.

And finally, a question: how will you respond to this freely given promise?  What is it that you are willing to commit to God, in response to God’s loving grace?

This is not about payment; God doesn’t sell grace to us and we don’t have enough to offer anyway.  This is about response, responding to that infinite love and grace, that is too wonderful to put into words.  God believes in you.  God loves you.  And nothing can get in the way of that.

So how do you want to respond?  How will you respond to this loving generosity of God?

Amen

One of the questions we need to ask of every bible story is “What’s the point?”  Why tell this story?  Especially when you get into some of the Old Testament stories, you have to wonder why they’re part of our ancient scriptures.  Some of them are just downright dodgy.  Many of these stories have been told many times over many years, and the historical accuracy might have become a bit dubious over time.  And yet, they remain as significant stories, becoming part of our sacred scriptures.  Many centuries after their first telling, perhaps around a campfire, having been told time and again, they are eventually written down as sacred scriptures.  So as we come to today’s story (Genesis 15: 19-34), keep in mind that many years ago, someone decided that this story that had been told many times over was significant enough to write down as part of their people’s sacred scriptures.

Why might a story make it into scripture?  Some of these stories are told because the characters inspire us by their actions: stories of valour or faithfulness or some other noble and desirous quality.  Some are told as stories that help us understand who God is and how we relate to God.  But today’s story doesn’t seem to fit either of those. 

Today’s story is of two brothers who have been fighting since they were in the womb together.  It’s the story of one brother taking advantage of the other.  In fact, a few chapters later, as Isaac is dying, mostly blind and bed bound, he sends Esau off hunting for a wild goat to make his last meal a savoury goat stew, but while he’s out, his wife Rebekah gets Jacob to slaughter one of the goats from their herd and make a stew for his father.  She then takes some pieces of goat skin to wrap around his arms and neck, and then sends him in to Isaac, pretending to be his older, hairier brother.  Together they trick Isaac into giving Jacob, not Esau, his dying blessing.  Jacob claims the birthright and the blessing that should have been Esau’s.

So why tell this story?  This is definitely not a story of brotherly love.  It’s not a great story about good parenting either, with the twin boys knowing clearly whose favourite they are.  As a story to serve as an inspiration to others, it’s not great.  There’s very little in these two brothers to admire: one is brutish and short-sighted, the other is scheming and devious.  As a story to tell us about God, it doesn’t do much either.  In this bit of the story, God doesn’t get much of a mention.  God doesn’t reward or punish either brother, doesn’t admonish Rebekah for her deceit, and doesn’t warn Isaac about the deception.  I’m not sure what this particular story tells us about God, except maybe to remind us that sometimes, God lets dishonest people get away with it.  There doesn’t seem to be any clear moral to this story where the devious and cunning brother seems to win out over the older Esau.

But there’s another reason why people tell stories about who they’re ancestors were and what they got up to.  Stories about our ancestors tell us a bit about who we are.  They help us understand our place in the world a bit better.  It’s helpful to realise that when the Israelite people are writing many of these stories down as scriptures centuries later, they have become slaves in exile in Babylon at the time.  They are a conquered, defeated people.  They no longer have access to the temple, the place where God lived.  And they have lost their connection with their land.  They are at risk of losing their identity as a people.  So they tell stories of their ancestors to remind themselves of who they are.

And we see a common theme already taking place in these stories.  Abraham is an outsider, a foreigner, in Canaan but he manages to thrive while he is there.  He is an old, old man with no children of his own but he is told he will father many nations.  His wife, Sarah, is an old woman and barren and yet, she bears him a son.  It is Abraham’s younger son, Isaac, and not the older son, Ishmael, who ends up carrying the inheritance of God’s promise to Abraham.  Isaac marries Rebekah who turns out to be barren and yet, she bears Isaac two sons, Esau and Jacob.  And it is the younger son, Jacob, and not his older brother who inherits the promise.

We’re only a couple of generations into the story, but there’s a pattern emerging.  Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebekah, Jacob, none of them are likely candidates for God to build a people on.  They are flawed, but more than that, they are hopeless causes.  If you’re going to build a legacy through the generations, you wouldn’t rely on old men, barren women, and second sons.  They are not the obvious choices to carry God’s promise of a great legacy.

For the people living in exile in Babylon, they probably feel the same way.  Their great nation has been conquered, the people have been dispersed, they are powerless and helpless.  They are hopeless causes.  It’s ridiculous to think that these people are the ones that carry God’s great promise, God’s hope for the future.  But they remind themselves through these stories that their ancestors have always been hopeless causes; they have always been the unlikely heroes in this grand design of God.

But why is this relevant to us today?  Let’s get back to our original question: what’s the point?  We’re not slaves in Babylon and we’re not descendants of Abraham, not by blood at least.  But we also carry the legacy.  We also are part of God’s plan for a wonderful new hope for this world.

In Ephesians, it says: In Christ we have also obtained an inheritance, having been destined according to the purpose of him who accomplishes all things according to his counsel and will, so that we, who were the first to set our hope on Christ, might live for the praise of his glory.  In 2 Corinthians, it says: All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and has given us the ministry of reconciliation.  I could go on and on.  The moment we were adopted into God’s family, we were also adopted into the family business; we have inherited God’s hope for this world and it’s through us that God’s dream may come to fruition.

Now I don’t feel equipped for that.  I’m not some influential celebrity who people will automatically listen to.  I’m not some holy saint that people will take notice of.  I don’t have all the answers.  I often don’t know the right words to say.  I often find it easier to talk about football rather than my faith.  I often don’t feel like I know what I’m doing.  Most of you know by now that I have many other flaws as well.

And yet, I’ve been called to carry God’s hope for this world.  I have been adopted into God’s family to help carry God’s dream for this world.  And so have you, each one of you.

We might not feel like we’re up to it.  As a church, we might look at some of the megachurches around the place who seem to be thriving, or we might look back to what felt like more successful times, and we might be tempted to think that we don’t have what it takes to make a difference.  Individually, we might feel like we’re too old or too busy or maybe just not Christian enough to carry God’s hope for this world.

So these stories are relevant for us also.  Let’s remind ourselves of these stories, of how we fit into a history of God using flawed people, people who aren’t the obvious choices, underdogs and hopeless causes, to carry God’s promise for this world.  We might not feel like we’re the obvious choices.  We might not be the best role models even.  And yet, we’re part of this crazy history of unlikely, impossible heroes, carrying God’s dream for this world.

I wonder how God might be calling you.  How will you carry God’s promise to this hurting world?  However you do it, don’t be afraid.  God believes in you.  And our God loves to beat the odds.

Amen.

In Matthew, it says: No one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and anyone to whom the Son chooses to reveal him. (Matt 11:27).  But what happens when he doesn’t? What happens when the Son doesn’t reveal God to us?  What about those moments when God feels unknowable, distant, absent even?

A lot of the Bible uses binary opposites: light vs dark; flesh vs spirit; law vs grace.  We can read this in much the same way: those who know God vs those who don’t.  But then when God feels unknowable, where does that place me?  Does that then shift me into the wrong side of the ledger?  If it’s true that no one knows the Father except the Son and anyone to whom the Son chooses to reveal him, then does that put me with the unchosen?  Does it mean that I am alone, an odd one out, an unchosen among the chosen whenever I come to church, an imposter among these true Christians?

When I look at our Old Testament story for today (Genesis 24:34-67), we get this story of Abraham sending his servant to find a wife for Isaac from among Abraham’s own hometown.  One of the things that I notice in that story though is the relationship between Abraham’s servant and God.  This servant isn’t part of Abraham’s family, isn’t part of God’s promise or God’s covenant with Abraham.  We don’t know how this servant or slave was acquired, where he came from, or what gods he grew up being taught to worship.  But he has been a servant in the household of Abraham for a long time and he has probably seen firsthand the relationship between Abraham and God.

So, when push comes to shove, when he’s arrived at his master’s hometown and he now has to find a wife for Isaac but with little idea how to do that, it says he prays to the God of his master, Abraham: Then he prayed, “Yahweh, God of my master Abraham, make me successful today, and show kindness to my master Abraham.  See, I am standing beside this spring, and the daughters of the townspeople are coming out to draw water.  May it be that when I say to a young woman, ‘Please let down your jar that I may have a drink,’ and she says, ‘Drink, and I’ll water your camels too’—let her be the one you have chosen for your servant Isaac.  By this I will know that you have shown kindness to my master.”

He sets a test as a way of finding a worthy wife.  Now I don’t speak from expertise at this point.  With my own relationship with Michele, I needed her to let me know she was interested before we started dating.  If she hadn’t taken the lead, I’d probably still be a single man.  So I don’t know much about getting a wife, and I know even less about finding a wife for someone else.

But remember that marriage then is not the same as marriage now.  A wife back then is simply someone who will keep the house and bear children, preferably sons.  That’s the main point of biblical marriage.  Love and romance aren’t necessarily part of it.  So this test seems to me to be a reasonable way to find a good potential wife for Isaac: ask for a drink of water and see if she also offers to water the camels.

He’s still flying blind, but he first prays to his master’s God for success.  He places his faith in a god that he doesn’t know personally, but in a god in whom his master believes.  He places his faith in that relationship; he places his faith in Abraham’s faith.

I think that’s where I’m often at with God.  I confess that there are times when God doesn’t feel close or obvious.  There are times when God feels hidden to me.  In those moments, I often have to lean on the faith of others.  Rather than putting myself down for not having enough faith or for not being spiritual enough or Christian enough, I instead lean on the faith of others and am inspired by the faith of others.

When it comes to our own congregation, I am inspired by Jan’s constant trust in God.  I am inspired by Denise’s care for others.  I am inspired by Chal’s prayerfulness, by Margaret’s willingness to wrestle with God, by Barbara’s honest vulnerability before God, by Helen’s passion for God’s church, by the way Gaye puts her faith into action, by the authentic groundedness of Yvonne’s faith, by the joy that Joyce’s faith brings her.

In those moments when God feels unknown or absent, this is how I know God.  I see God through those relationships between God and God’s people.  I look around this congregation and I don’t just see people of wonderful faith; I see God present in my midst.

Earlier in the worship service, we talked about the need to go beyond our walls and to hang out with people who aren’t like us.  There are times when I need to be out in the world with people who might not believe the same things I do.  But there are also times when I need to be alone with God.  And there are times when I need to be with other Christians, to be inspired and refreshed by our shared faith.  And I call it a shared faith because sometimes I might need to borrow some of yours.

Now as good as that vicarious faith is, I know it won’t sustain me forever.  At some point, I need to experience God firsthand.  At some point, I need that faith to be more than vicarious.  My relationship with God can’t always be via someone else.  Otherwise I’ll start putting that person in the place of God.  And that’s dangerous.  But in those moments when God feels unknowable or absent, then I know I can turn to the faith of others.  There are many times when I have turned to people here for wisdom or discernment, when I haven’t known the right thing to do. 

I look at the stories of Jesus and it sometimes feels like he always just knows – that God is always present for him, telling him what to do, and I get incredibly jealous of that.  I don’t have that.  I don’t have God always telling me what to do.

But then, that not knowing is what drives me deeper making me yearn for God the more, but it also teaches me to lean on others, to trust not just in my own faith but in the faith of others as well.  Maybe that’s why in one of his letters, Paul talks about us, as a whole, being the body of Christ.

So now I look at that verse again: No one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and anyone to whom the Son chooses to reveal him… and I realise that sometimes that revelation comes through the people all around me. Thanks be to God.
Amen.

This week, we’ve got another horrible, horrible story (Genesis 22:1-18): more family dysfunction, brokenness, and tragedy following on from last week’s family dysfunction and brokenness.

Last week, we had a story about Abraham: the story of his second wife, Hagar, and their son, Ishmael; of how his first wife, Sarah, became jealous and had Abraham send Hagar and Ishmael away, into the wilderness, possibly to die. We heard last week of how God has made promises to Abraham that both his sons would father nations, and that Ishmael would be cared for, and so with that reassurance, Abraham sends away one of his wives together with his first-born son.

And now, after Abraham has done the unthinkable, after he has sent away his firstborn son, in order to appease a jealous wife, he’s probably feeling grief-stricken and lost. Sometime after that, God appears to Abraham and says to him: “Abraham, take your son, your only son, Isaac, the one whom you love and go to the land of Moriah and offer him there as a burnt offering.”

Abraham has only just sent Ishmael away; he has just lost his beloved first-born son, and now God turns up and refers to Isaac as your son, your only son, the one whom you love. Talk about rubbing salt into the wound. And now that Abraham has lost one son, God calls on him to sacrifice the other.

There’s an old Jewish folktale that says that God asked for one of his angels to take this message to Abraham, but it was such a terrible thing that they all refused, so God had to deliver the message in person. What God asks of Abraham is abominable; it’s abhorrent and disgusting. The fact that it says that it is just a test still makes God look like a monster.

There are some commentators that say that this story is what is called an aetiological myth: like many myths, it’s told to explain why something is the way it is. In this case they argue it is a story told to explain why their people make animal sacrifices to God, especially when some neighbouring cultures are still doing human sacrifices. That’s one theory. But if that’s all this story is, then it’s just a literary relic with no relevance for us today.

There are some who use this story to talk about far you’re willing to go, how much you’re willing to do to prove your love and devotion to God. Abraham was willing to sacrifice his son; what are you willing to do for God? I think that’s a really dangerous line to take with this story. In an age of religious extremism, using a story of death and violence as an example of devotion and piety is the sort of stuff that leads to religious terrorism. I don’t believe your use of violence or even your willingness for violence should ever be used as a measure of your devotion to God.

And indeed, if we take that as our lesson from this story, then we’ve missed the ending. At the end of the story, Isaac isn’t sacrificed; Abraham doesn’t lose another son; there is hope. Where death and sacrifice seemed the only possible outcome, hope for life shines through. Death is not the end of the story. I think that’s the point of this story. At the end of the story, God offers a chance for life. Death is not the final outcome for this story.

One of the things that speaks to me in this story is the image of Isaac carrying the firewood. Isaac is carrying the wood which is the means for his own death. It reminds me of another son who carries the wood for his own death. In the story of Jesus on the cross, we get another ugly story of sacrifice and death. That story is also a story of death: it’s a gruesome story of a human sacrifice which is just as abhorrent and disgusting as the story of Abraham sacrificing Isaac, but that story also ends not with death, but with hope and with life.

When we focus on the sacrifice in this story of Abraham and Isaac, we miss the point. If we only see the story of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his own son, then we miss the whole point that it’s not necessary, that in the end, death and violence is not the answer, that at the end of the day, our God is a god of life and hope.

Likewise, if we only focus on the cross and forget about the empty tomb, if we only ever talk about the sacrifice of Christ and forget about the new life found in Jesus, then we miss the point. The sacrifice stories are ugly stories, but they get us to the main point of the story: that violence and death is not the answer; that is not the final outcome. The final outcome is life.

About 20 years ago, Mel Gibson brought out the film called The Passion of the Christ. It is two gruelling hours of torture and death and the whole thing deserves its R rating. But because the focus is almost entirely on the cross, what we get isn’t life-giving or hopeful. Near the end of the movie, there is a scene where Mary holds the body of Jesus, and she looks directly at the camera. It’s the only time in the movie when someone looks directly at the camera, and Mary does so with an accusing stare. The message is quite clear: You the audience are responsible for this. You’re to blame. You are guilty. And when it’s only the cross, then that’s all we’re left with. But there’s more to this story: death is not the end of the story. Beyond the ugliness of death is the hope for new life. That’s the point of the story.

We heard in our earlier reading from Romans: Present yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life. Brought from death to life. Our God is a god of life. Too often our religion has focussed only on the cross with its message of death and sacrifice. The cross is an important part of the story, but it’s only half the story. And if that’s all we have, then all we’re left with is guilt and remorse.

But the cross is empty and so is the tomb. When we realise that the ugliness of sacrifice leads into new life and new hope, then that new hope and new life can inspire everything we do. As followers of Christ, we are not people of guilt and shame, but we are resurrection people, filled with the life of Christ. Christ came that we might have life and have that in abundance. The cross is empty. The Son is risen. Death is no more and new life is for all.

Hallelujah!
Amen!

There’s a story that’s in Matthew’s gospel (Matthew 9:18-26) that’s shared across three of the gospels of Jesus doing a miraculous double-play. Two people approach Jesus seeking a healing miracle and both are successful in that pursuit. But it’s interesting to see how those two different people approach Jesus in this story in very different ways.

The first to approach is a leader, or ruler, in the synagogue: an important and significant person within the local community, a respected figure of standing. He comes before Jesus and kneels and puts his request: my daughter has died but I believe you can still heal her. Immediately, Jesus hears his request and begins to follow him to where his daughter lies.

The other person to approach Jesus doesn’t bother trying to speak to him. She’s not an important figure in the community; she has no standing. She doesn’t expect an audience. The most she hopes for is the chance to touch the fringe of his robe, most likely his tallit, his prayer shawl. This is a woman who has been bleeding, menstruating for twelve years straight. Now, according to Jewish law, she would be considered constantly unclean, for in Leviticus, it says:

“If a woman has a discharge of blood for many days, not at the time of her menstrual impurity, or if she has a discharge beyond the time of her menstrual impurity, all the days of the discharge she shall continue in uncleanness; as in the days of her impurity, she shall be unclean. 26 Every bed on which she lies during all the days of her discharge shall be treated as the bed of her impurity, and everything on which she sits shall be unclean, as in the uncleanness of her impurity. 27 Whoever touches these things shall be unclean and shall wash his clothes and bathe in water and be unclean until the evening. 28 If she is cleansed of her discharge, she shall count seven days, and after that she shall be clean. 29 On the eighth day she shall take two turtledoves or two pigeons and bring them to the priest at the entrance of the tent of meeting. 30 The priest shall offer one for a purification offering and the other for a burnt offering, and the priest shall make atonement on her behalf before the Lord for her unclean discharge.

For the last twelve years, this woman has been unclean, unwelcome in society, unable to be part of the community around her. In fact, even her being out in the street is a huge social offence and transgression because anyone who brushes past her becomes ritually unclean. So, in order to touch Jesus’ clothes, she has to break social taboos, she has to risk further abuse, and she has to risk angering the God who has commanded that she is unclean.

On one hand, we’ve got a leader in the synagogue, a most righteous and respected citizen, and on the other hand, we have an unclean and defiled woman who is breaking social taboos and defying God’s commandments. Which one of these two approaches Jesus, confident that their request will be seen to, that their voice will be heard? And which of these two does the crowd pay attention to? In the story, the respectable, upstanding leader has no hesitation in approaching Jesus with his request whereas the unclean woman sincerely doubts that she will get an audience.

But which one does Jesus listen to? Which one does Jesus pay attention to? One aspect of Jesus throughout the gospels is that he spends time with respectable sorts: Pharisees and scribes, rich people and centurions, but he also spends time listening to those who would normally have no voice. In fact, earlier in this chapter, Jesus is being told off for eating with tax collectors and sinners, for spending time with those who are considered unworthy, disreputable, unclean, less than. Jesus seems to go out of his way to spend time with those whom society considers unworthy.

So what does this all mean for us today? What does it mean for us to listen to all people? Later this year, there’s a referendum to decide whether or not we give a voice to those who historically haven’t had one. We have a long history of not listening to those with whom we share this land. Over the last two centuries, we have told them where to live and how to live and then, we have often tried to solve their problems for them, without necessarily listening or understanding. And let’s be honest, there are problems and they are complex problems.

But we know that some people in our society have more of a voice than others. I imagine if Gina Rinehart wants to speak with our prime minister, she picks up the phone and makes an appointment. Likewise, if Sally McManus, the Secretary of the Australian Council of Trade Unions, or Matt Comyn, the CEO of the Commonwealth Bank, or Kerry Stokes, the chair of SevenWest Media, wants to speak to the PM, they just have to make a call. And if any of them holds a press conference, you know the cameras are going to turn up.

But the same isn’t true for everyone. We have groups and individuals in our society that definitely have a voice, but we also have many more who have no voice, who struggle to be heard. When I look at this story though, of the unclean woman who is heard and is healed, I see a Jesus imperative to listen for those who have no voice, to pay attention to those voices which are ignored or silenced by the rest of society.

When we have had elections in the past, I have tried to avoid telling you which way to vote, but today I need to say that when a group of people who have historically been silenced ask for their voice to be recognised, then I have to look to the way of Jesus who took time out to listen for those who had no voice.

As a follower of Jesus, I cannot vote for them to stay silenced. I will be voting yes and I pray that you will do likewise.

Amen.

As many of you know, I’m a bit of a fan of superhero culture. On Saturday, Michele and I took our niece and nephew to Supanova: a convention celebrating all things sci-fi and fantasy and geek culture generally.

My niece dressed up as a unicorn from Unstable Unicorns and my nephew dressed as the Mandalorian. For those of you that don’t know, the Mandalorian is a character from the world of Star Wars. At the end of the day, we saw the cosplay parade. Cosplay is where people dress up as characters from comics, TV shows, video games, and movies. Some of them put hours and hours into these costumes and they look spectacular. Part of the appeal is that these characters are larger than life; they are big and bold and heroic. Many of them are literally called super heroes. But of course, it’s not just us comic book geeks that have heroes. We have all sorts of people that we look up to or admire, people in sports, in politics, in the media whom we try to emulate. I wonder who you might consider as a hero.

One of the things I’ve noticed in a lot of superhero comics and TV shows and movies lately though is that the heroes and villains have become a lot more nuanced. At Supanova, I got to listen to Michelle Gomez who has made a career out of playing sympathetic villains. On the flipside, our heroes often face moral dilemmas where it’s not so easy to choose right from wrong. And more and more, these heroes do things which we may find questionable. They’ve become more nuanced, or to put it another way, they are writing our heroes to be fallible, to be flawed, to be human.

We get a bit of that in today’s Old Testament story (Genesis 18: 8-21). Three of the world’s major religions see Abraham as the forefather of their faith. Judaism, Christianity, and Islam all see Abraham as one of their religion’s heroes, the one whose faith and obedience to God led to the blessing in which we all share. Paul consistently points to Abraham as an example of our faith. This is just one example: For what does the scripture say? “Abraham believed God, and it was reckoned to him as righteousness.” (Rom 4:3) Likewise, the writer of Hebrews says: By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to set out for a place that he was to receive as an inheritance, and he set out, not knowing where he was going. (Heb 11:8)

So now we come to another story of this great man of faith, the forefather to our belief. In this story, Abraham’s first wife, Sarah, becomes jealous of Abraham’s second wife, Hagar, who has given Abraham a son who is older than her son. Although Isaac holds God’s promise, it is Ishmael who is Abraham’s firstborn, and the sight of the two boys playing together upsets her. She demands that Abraham send Hagar and Ishmael away. And so, Hagar and Ishmael are sent into the wilderness to die.

But let’s take a moment to refresh ourselves on the background of this story. In chapter 12 of Genesis, God promises to Abraham “I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.” and God also says: “To your offspring, I will give this land.” and then in chapter 13, God says: I will make your offspring like the dust of the earth, so that if one can count the dust of the earth, your offspring also can be counted. We’ve got this promise from God, but Sarah’s getting on in years, so then in chapter 16: Now Sarai, Abram’s wife, bore him no children. She had an Egyptian slave whose name was Hagar, and Sarai said to Abram, “You see that the Lord has prevented me from bearing children; go in to my slave; it may be that I shall obtain children by her.” And Abram listened to the voice of Sarai. So, after Abram had lived ten years in the land of Canaan, Sarai, Abram’s wife, took Hagar the Egyptian, her slave, and gave her to her husband Abram as a wife. He went in to Hagar, and she conceived,

So now Abraham’s got two wives, but that’s what biblical marriage looks like (let’s not talk about the third wife just yet). Then in chapter 17, we get this: “I will establish my covenant with Isaac as an everlasting covenant for his offspring after him. As for Ishmael, I have heard you; I will bless him and make him fruitful and exceedingly numerous; he shall be the father of twelve princes, and I will make him a great nation. But my covenant I will establish with Isaac …” That’s the story leading up to this: two wives, two sons, and while the older son carries a promise from God, it’s the younger who carries God’s covenant. But then, Sarah sees the two sons of Abraham together and gets jealous for the sake of her son, Isaac, so she tells Abraham to send Hagar and Ishmael away.

This forefather of our religion, this great hero of faith, takes a slave girl as his second wife because, although God has promised many offspring, he sees this as his only chance to have kids. Then despite God’s promise to bless both Isaac and Ishmael, this great hero of our faith sends his wife and son into the wilderness to die, simply to avoid the domestic turmoil in his home. When we think of Abraham at this point, some words that may spring to mind might be weak, faithless, cruel, unjust, confused, or possibly defeated. One word that definitely doesn’t come to mind is “heroic”.

Now there are some biblical commentators who have tried to justify Abraham’s actions. I believe that they do this because the very idea that one of their heroes might be fallible and flawed is too difficult to cope with. That happens a lot. When you read the books of 1 & 2 Chronicles, you find the same stories as are in Samuel & Kings but they’ve been rewritten, tidied up. The kings in those stories become a lot less fallible and flawed and the theology is a lot less messy.

We don’t like our heroes to make mistakes. In the song, Holding Out For A Hero, there’s a line: I’m holding out for a hero ’til the morning light. He’s gotta be sure, and it’s gotta be soon And he’s gotta be larger than life We need our heroes to be bigger and better than the world around us, to give a sense of assurance and a sense of purpose, to inspire us see beyond the mundane. But then it’s no wonder we feel betrayed when our heroes are shown to be flawed. And what that happens, sometimes we will try to defend the indefensible, or to deny any wrongdoing no matter how apparent to avoid having to admit that our heroes are wrong.

This week, I watched the documentary on SBS called “The Kingdom” about the fall of Hillsong and some of the culture in Pentecostalism. What was detailed was an excessive abuse of power that was allowed to continue for far too long because the leaders of that church had become the heroes of that church, and no one wanted to believe that their heroes could do wrong. But what we also saw was that when we start to think of our heroes as infallible, then those leaders start to fear letting their vulnerabilities show; they cover up their mistakes. And because they heroes, no on holds them accountable.

In this documentary about Hillsong, there were some people who had turned their back on Christianity entirely, and at the other extreme, there are some who have dug their heels in and refused to acknowledge any wrongdoing. We’ve seen the same thing in American politics, from Richard Nixon to Bill Clinton and more recently as well, but we’ve seen it in other arenas also: from Lance Armstrong to Woody Allen. When one of our heroes is shown to be flawed, then those who are hurting from the betrayal can start to fight with each other, needing to argue their hero’s innocence, or despising everything and everyone associated with that former hero.

We talk about Jesus as the light of the world, who brings our actions into a clearer light. The way of Jesus exposes that which we would rather keep hidden. Time and again, we’ve seen these cover ups come to light, exposing the exploits of those we’ve admired. And when that realisation hits, and our heroes are shown to be fallible and flawed, it hits hard. When that happens, as we read in Matthew’s gospel (Matt 10:34-36), the way of Jesus will set son against father, daughter against mother, brother against brother, and so on.

But the way of Jesus is also the way of humility. It is the way of forgiveness. It is the way of redemption. One of the things I love about our scriptures is that they don’t paint things as all roses and sunshine. In our Old Testament stories especially, there’s a genuine authenticity to the foibles of humanity. They remind us that even our heroes are fallible and flawed. They show its heroes to be fallible and human, to make terrible mistakes.

That’s what makes the story of Jesus so powerful. Jesus comes as the perfect one, not to sit in judgement over this fallible and flawed humanity, but to become part of us, part of our fallibility and vulnerability, and to show us the way into reconciliation with God and with each other, demanding accountability but offering grace and forgiveness, without pretence and without fear.

Amen.

Let’s face it – Thomas cops a bad rap. According to John’s story (John 20:19-31), Thomas isn’t there when Jesus shows up and reveals himself to the other disciples. Then when they all try to tell Thomas that Jesus is alive again, Thomas has only their word that the impossible has happened. They have put their lives on hold to follow this guy for the past three years, believing that he may be the source of salvation for Israel and perhaps even for all of humanity, only to see this same guy crucified, killed in the most horrible way.

I can’t imagine the level of grief and despair that the disciples are going through. Now, a week after witnessing the crucifixion, they might just be starting to come to terms with what this means for their lives. It’s at that point that Thomas is told that Jesus is alive and well. I don’t know about you, but I reckon if I was Thomas, I’d be angry. I’m just starting to come to terms with this death and you pull this stunt like sort of practical joke that’s in incredibly bad taste. Either that or you’re still so grief stricken that you’re imagining Jesus with you. Either way, I’m trying to cope with my grief and put my life back in order and I don’t have time to deal with your crap. I suspect that’s how I’d be feeling, and I reckon the other disciples would be the same if they were in Thomas’ shoes. Well, maybe not Andrew; he strikes me as being an incredible optimist, but the others for sure. And yet, because it’s Thomas who happens to be missing when Jesus shows up the first time, he now gets labelled as “Doubting Thomas”.

But that’s not the main reason why I feel sorry for Thomas. The way John tells the story, when Jesus shows up to the disciples that first time, he gives a blessing to the rest of them. He says to them: “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” (v 21-23). That’s huge. Not only does Jesus apparently give the Holy Spirit into each of them, but he seems to give them the same authority as God over sin and whether they are forgiven: If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.

Couldn’t Jesus have waited until Thomas was there before giving this blessing to the disciples? Why does Thomas miss out on this blessing? Or maybe this isn’t only a one-time deal, just for those ten disciples. Maybe this is a blessing and a promise that carries over to all Jesus’ disciples forevermore, including Thomas?

To clear some of this up, we first have to remember why John, or whoever it is, is writing this gospel in the first place. And John’s quite up front about this. He says: Jesus performed many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not recorded in this book. But these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name (v 30-31). John tells his readers that he isn’t writing a biography or a history. He’s writing a bunch of stories and moulding those stories specifically in order that you will believe. In other words, John is writing Jesus propaganda, and he’s quite up front about this. He wants you to believe in Jesus. So, if John is writing for people some 60 or so years after Jesus has died and rose again as well as other Jesus disciples later on, then that includes us. As such, we can assume that everything John chooses to put into his gospel, he puts there because it’s relevant to us. So when we get to this bit about Jesus blessing the ten disciples, I can’t imagine John putting that in there unless that blessing was relevant to us as well, as the later disciples of Jesus. Otherwise, it’s just historical trivia, and John’s already told us that that’s not why he’s writing this.

So does that mean that we have the power to determine whether or not God forgives sins? Well, no, I don’t think so. I don’t think that’s what Jesus is saying here at all. In this story from John, he has Jesus turn up and the first thing he says is, “Peace be with you.” He shows them his scare and then he says it again, “Peace be with you.” The first direction is for peace, but it is peace wrapped around the costly sacrifice. Then he says, “As the Father sent me, so I am sending you.”

Remember, we’ve said that John’s not writing historical trivia. He’s writing stuff that is relevant for us today. Just as Jesus was sent by God into this world to inspire people with the kingdom of God, to show people a better way of living, a life that is communion with God. And he starts with a blessing of peace. I believe that the emphasis for John is Jesus sending us out to follow the way of Jesus: a way of life that is at peace with God and at peace with our neighbour. That’s what salvation looks like.

So let’s look again at what he says next to the disciples, and indirectly to us: If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained. I don’t believe that Jesus is saying that we have the power and authority over whether or not God forgives sins. What I believe John is saying through Jesus is that if we want to live a life of peace, and if we want to be ambassadors of God’s peace in this world, then forgiveness plays a big part in that.

If we forgive people when they sin against us, then that sin is released for us. But if we hang on to the sins that people do against us, then not only do I hold onto that, but that continues to hold onto me. It’s like in the story of Little Bear that we read earlier (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oo1iKScfJts). He was so busy holding on to things that weren’t important, he wasn’t able to hold onto what mattered. When we forgive, it frees us up to hold onto what matters. When we refuse to forgiven when we hold onto grievance, it takes up emotional and spiritual space in our lives.

But forgiveness can be easier said than done. Forgiveness can be hard. We are hardwired for justice. When someone does us wrong, natural justice demands that they be punished. Choosing to forgive takes a huge leap of faith. Choosing to forgive says that although natural justice demands that you be punished for what you’ve done, I believe, I trust, I have faith, that I will be better off by letting this go. I believe, I trust, I have faith in God’s promise for this world, where we live in a state of grace where everyone can be reconciled with each other and with God.

I think that’s why John tells the story of Thomas. Straight after John has Jesus telling us disciples that we are being sent into this world to follow this path of peace and forgiveness, he then tells the story of Jesus reminding one of the disciples through the scars of his crucifixion: the most costly act of forgiveness and reconciliation but then asking that disciple to believe, to trust, that new life is possible through that, even when it’s not immediately visible.

That’s what faith is all about. It’s about trusting in what isn’t immediately in front of us. It’s saying that I will act in a certain way because I trust in something or someone that I can’t immediately see or even understand. It’s like Peter says in our other reading for today: Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy, for you are receiving the end result of your faith, the salvation of your souls. (1 Peter 1:8-9)

I can forgive John for his treatment of Thomas. I know he’s just using Thomas as a literary device in order to teach about what life in the resurrection means for us as disciples today. Believing in the resurrection isn’t about whether or not you believe that Jesus rose from the dead. That’s just historical trivia. Believing in the resurrection means trusting in a messiah who is bigger than death, bigger than hatred, bigger than vengeance, bigger than natural justice, big enough and hopeful enough to inspire us to live a life filled with forgiveness and reconciliation and joy. And when we have faith is that, then we have the inspiration to forgive.

That’s where I want to put my trust, even when it’s not immediately evident, because I want to believe in that hope and that promise, not just for me, but for our world. So I choose to follow in faith.

Amen.