From Our Archives
For another essay on this week's texts, see Debie Thomas, I Am Sending You (2020)
For Sunday June 18, 2023
Lectionary Readings (Revised Common Lectionary, Year A)
Genesis 18:1–15 or Exodus 19:2–8
Psalm 116:1–2, 12–19, or Psalm 100
This Week's Essay
I've had exactly one dream that I can remember in which I laughed out loud. I don't remember the dream, I just remember how pleasant it felt to laugh in my sleep.
As for jokes, our family likes to say that we laugh three times — when we hear the joke, when it's explained to us, and when we finally understand it.
Then there's nervous laughter that isn't at all funny. I remember a strategic meeting of our church leaders when a friend asked an awkward but important question. The result was predictable — nervous laughter.
The Genesis story for this week revolves around human laughter — in particular, the dismissive laughter of incredulity, and then some clever word play about that laughter. The matriarch Sarah laughed at God's improbable promise to her, and then she lied in an effort to deny her doubts. It's a deeply human story.
Standing at the entrance to their tent, Sarah eavesdropped on Abraham as he conversed with three travelers who were visiting them, and who prophesied that "about this time next year Sarah your wife will bear a son."
In fact, this was the second time that Abraham had received this promise; when he heard it the first time he "fell face down, 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?'"
Sarah responded in the same way as Abraham when she overheard the stupendous suggestion: "So Sarah laughed to herself as she thought, 'After I am worn out and my master is old, will I now have this pleasure?'" The ecstasy of erotic pleasure? The joy of a newborn baby? Sarah laughed in disbelief.
But God rebuked her for her doubt, at which point she then lied and denied: "Sarah was afraid, so she lied and said, 'I did not laugh.' But he said, 'Yes, you did laugh.'" (17:17; 18:10–15). Sarah doubted and denied, she laughed and she lied, because of the "absurd disproportion between the divine promise and the human possibility."
Her response was entirely human, and not really surprising. From a human perspective her disbelief was warranted, even appropriate. People don't procreate in old age. But her unbelief also elicited a rhetorical rebuke in the punch line of the narrative: "Is anything too difficult for the Lord?" (18:14).
When I was in seminary forty years ago, my classmate Phil coined a term for that sort of religious faith that has a firm and unwavering belief in a tame and innocuous divinity, faith that doesn't have any expectation that God will meddle in human affairs, intercede in your life, providentially guide human history, care for a loved one, heal the hurts we suffer, or — God forbid — do the impossible.
Phil characterized this sort of tepid faith as "functional deism." Functional deism never denies the existence of God, but it also never expects God's decisive action in your personal affairs. And so God rebuked Sarah for her timid faith in a tiny god.
God didn't shame Sarah in a punitive manner. Quite the contrary. We read that "the Lord was gracious to Sarah as he had said, and the Lord did for Sarah what he had promised."
In a delightful double entendre, Sarah and Abraham named their son Isaac, which in Hebrew means "he laughs." Their son of laughter would always remind them of their own disbelief, when each of them laughed at God's promise, but also testify to how God fulfilled his promise and acted in their personal history despite improbable circumstances.
Whereas at first Sarah had brought her dismissive laughter to God's promise, in the end the tables were turned: "God has brought me laughter, and everyone who hears about this will laugh with me. Who would have said to Abraham that Sarah would nurse children? Yet I have born him a son in his old age" (21:1–7).
The story of Sarah's dismissive laughter and coverup lies conveys not only an appropriate rebuke, and a reminder of God's mighty power to act in the most hopeless of circumstances. The narrative also communicates a sense of consolation.
We normally think of Abraham and Sarah as paragons of faith and virtue, and with good reason given how differently the New Testament remembers them (cf. Romans 4:18–25, Hebrews 11:11, and 1 Peter 3:6). But the original Genesis story demonstrates how God's drama of salvation is not a story of stellar saints so far removed from our own experiences that we could never hope to emulate them, but of down and dirty sinners, messy characters portrayed with glaring faults and failures.
Acting out his own fears, Abraham lied about his wife Sarah (Genesis 12:13). Both he and Sarah scoffed at God's promise of progeny. Commenting on the untidy and unsavory nature of the Biblical characters, Eugene Peterson puts it this way:
One of the remarkable characteristics of the biblical way of training us to understand history and our place in it is the absolute refusal to whitewash a single detail… The history in which our Scriptures show that God is involved is every bit as messy as the history reported by our mass media in which God is rarely mentioned apart from blasphemies. Sex and violence, rape and massacre, brutality and deceit do not seem to be congenial materials for use in developing a story of salvation, but there they are, spread out on the pages of our Scriptures. It might not offend some of us so much if these flawed and reprobate people were held up as negative examples with lurid, hellfire descriptions of the punishing consequences of living such bad lives. But the [biblical] story is not told quite that way. There are punishing consequences, of course, but the fact is that all these people, good and bad, faithful and flawed, are worked into the plot of salvation. God, it turns out, does not require good people in order to do good work. As one medieval saying has it, "God draws straight lines with a crooked stick." He can and does work with us, whatever the moral and spiritual condition in which he finds us. God, we realize, does some of his best work using the most unlikely people.2
I take comfort in knowing that my own doubts and denials, the lies I tell myself to rationalize my disbelief, and the times that I scoff at the likelihood of divine intervention in my puny affairs, are not only standard fare for human nature, but also the unwieldy material of God's salvation history. They might deserve a divine rebuke, but they don't constitute an ultimate obstacle to divine action in my own little story.
NOTE: Eugene Peterson, Christ Plays In Ten Thousand Places (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), pp. 140-141.
Denise Levertov (1923–1997)
Lord, not you,
it is I who am absent.
belief was a joy I kept in secret,
into sacred places:
a quick glance, and away—and back,
I have long since uttered your name
I elude your presence.
to think about you, and my mind
like a minnow darts away,
into the shadows, into gleams that fret
the river's purling and passing.
Not for one second
will my self hold still, but wanders
everywhere it can turn. Not you,
it is I who am absent.
You are the stream, the fish, the light,
the pulsing shadow,
you the unchanging presence, in whom all
moves and changes.
How can I focus my flickering, perceive
at the fountain's heart
the sapphire I know is there?
For Levertov's poetry, see Paul A. Lacey and Anne Dewey (editors), with an Introduction by Eavan Boland, The Collected Poems of Denise Levertov (New York: New Directions, 2013), 1063pp.
Dan Clendenin: firstname.lastname@example.org