Desert Scribblings

March 1, 2009 – First Sunday in Lent, Year B

Genesis 9:8-17 - link to the NRSV text

The Old Testament/Hebrew Bible lections for Lent this year, other than the Numbers reading on the fourth Sunday, revolve around God's covenant with Israel.  From Noah to Abraham to Moses and Sinai to Jeremiah, the theme of covenant moves us toward Easter and the covenant inaugurated in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.

And this journey of covenant begins with Noah; in fact, the word "covenant" (Hebrew: berit) appears for the first time in the biblical narrative in the flood narrative: "But I will establish my covenant with you: and you shall come into the ark, you, your sons, your wife, and your sons' wives with you" (Genesis 6:18).  I've blogged about the flood story before, so I'm going to shift away from the flood itself (which occurred in the chapters before our reading) and focus instead on the aftermath.

Divine speech encompasses the entirety of our reading; it is God laying out for Noah the covenant that God is establishing as he had promised back in chapter 6.  The verses immediately preceding laid out Noah's responsibilities:
    To be fruitful and multiply (9:1)
    Reaffirmation of humanity's stewardship over the creation (9:2)
    God's permission to eat meat, but not the blood (9:3-5)
    Condemnation of shedding human blood (9:6)
    Repetition of command to be fruitful (9:7)

These commands could potentially be seen as a reestablishment of the relationship between God and humankind as it originally was following creation.  The commands to multiply and the reaffirmation of humanity's stewardship of creation echo similar commands from the creation stories.  The condemnation of human bloodshed seems to echo the Cain and Able narrative as a warning from God to not repeat that mistake.

But the focus of the story is not in Noah's responsibilities.  If these commands are a reestablishment (or at least a recitation) of the divine-human relationship, they are only of any consequence in light of God's choice to enter into covenant with the creation.  "I establish my covenant with you, that never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth" (9:11).  The continued existence of creation now and in the future rests solely on God's decision to not wipe it all away and start over.

And to seal the covenant, God declares that a sign will be given as a reminder.  "This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations: I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth" (9:12-13).  God sets aside a "bow," and instrument of war and destruction, as God's sign that further destruction against the creation will not occur.

I remember as a child being told that the rainbow was the sign that reminded us that God would not send a flood again.  The text, however, as a much different take: the bow is not a sign for us primarily, but a sign for God.  "When I bring the clouds," God says, "and when I see the bow in the clouds, I will remember the everlasting covenant between me and all that is in the earth."

The rainbow, what the ancient author of the flood narrative interpreted as God's weapon laid aside, stands between us and God as a sign of the covenant that reminds us of the mutuality of covenant: that there are two parties, both of which are in this together.

The rainbow does serve as a sign for us, a sign that reminds us of God's promises first and foremost, a sign that reminds us that God remembers us and has not abandoned us.  It is a sign that God's memory is more powerful than our forgetfulness, that God's desire for resurrection and new life overcomes our appetite for destruction and death.

"When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth."  God remembers, God is faithful, and God continues to be in covenant, to be in relationship with us.  And in my book, that is good news.

Shalom,
Geoff

November 16, 2008 - Twenty-Seventh Sunday After Pentecost

Judges 4:1-7 - link to the NRSV text

Just as the wilderness narratives had a pattern of crisis-grumbling-providence-deliverance, the book of Judges often follows a pattern of its own: apostasy-oppression-cry for salvation-God raises up a judge.  And as the story goes on, the times of faithfulness seem to shorten while the periods of apostasy seem to lengthen.  The tribes continue this pattern and it gets progressively worse until the end of the book, when the tribes turn on each other and the land descends into civil war (cf. Judges 19-21).

This pattern begins to play out for this generation here in Judges 4:1: "The Israelites again did what was evil in the sight of the LORD," followed by the description of the oppression by Jabin of Canaan and his right-hand man Sisera and is said to have lasted twenty years.  So the Israelites cry out to God, and then we are introduced to Deborah.

Deborah is described as both prophetess and judge, much like Samuel would function as both prophet and judge later in Israel's history.  Functioning as the judge of Israel, Deborah summons Barak from Kedesh of the tribe of Naphtali and gives him some military instructions.

That is where the lection for the day ends, but to really get into it the rest of the story probably needs to be referenced.  In the verse 8, Barak argues that he will go only if Deborah goes as well.  This could very possibly be a editorial insertion to downplay female authority, for verse 7 seems to suggest that she would be leading a seperate force to lure Sisera into Barak's ambush.

This weakening of female power is emphasized by Deborah's assertation that because he asked this, then instead of him receiving the glory for victory it would be given to a woman (at this point, we would presume Deborah).  Battle ensues, with Sisera's troop trounced and Sisera himself fleeing only to find himself on the wrong end of Jael's tent peg (cf. 4:17-24).

The preacher could emphasize God using people the world would normally consider less-than-ideal (Deborah as judge, Jael as the one who defeats Sisera).  And that is a powerful story and one that needs to be heard.

But alternatively, in this day and time, someone could focus less on Deborah and Barak as the instruments of deliverance, but on Israel's apostasy and the pattern of neglect-trouble-need for deliverance.  Think about our financial crisis here in the states and globally.  Think about the rising demand for energy that will most likely occur in the decades to come.  

How are we contributing to these problems through "ungodly" living?  That is, living in ways that are not in harmony with God, with each other, and with the rest of creation?  What are we as people of faith doing or failing to do in order to point the world towards more harmonious life?  How have we "done evil in the eyes of the LORD" through how we use our money, time, and resources that have contributed to the economic situation?

Yet with that comes the word of comfort, that even when we do turn away and God turns us over to the consequences of our actions, God is there when we call and offers us new beginnings.  So the follow up question to "How have we done what is evil in the eyes of God?" is: "So how is God at work in the midst of these circumstances, and how can I be a part of that work like Deborah and Barak?"

Shalom,

Geoff

June 1, 2008 – Third Sunday after Pentecost

Genesis 6:11-22, 7:24, 8:14-19 - link to the NRSV text

[Personal Note: Sorry for the late post this week, but I wasn't feeling well earlier in the week.]

The Noah story holds an interesting place in the Christian imagination, at least in my experience.  For many people of faith, we grow up hearing the Noah story in Sunday school and at Vacation Bible School and we sing songs about it.  “The LORD said to Noah, build me an arky, arky…”  We learn the story as if it is just a cute little story about a boat and animals and a rainbow in the sky.  We decorate children’s classrooms with Noah’s Ark murals and put it on the front of children’s bibles.

Then we get older and we re-read the story of Noah, and we’ll stop and think, “Wait!  We teach this to children?”  When we think of approved Bible stories for children, we often don’t think about stories featuring God’s judgment on the entire creation and God’s initial resolve to wipe it all out and start all over again.  We are surprised by the utter destruction depicted, by God’s anger and wrath and God’s desire to destroy all life on the earth, images that clash with our childhood memories of sheep and cows getting on a nice boat built by the nice, long-bearded man.

Too often, however, I think we focus on the wrong aspect of the flood narrative.  Too often we hone in on humanity’s corruption and God’s wrathful judgment, either reveling in or being repulsed by it.  In that regard, we are often like we are when we pass a bad car wreck on the highway, not being able to look away, either because of our horror at what has happened or our fascination to know just a little bit more about what had taken place.  Either way, our eyes are glued to the scene.

But in doing so, in focusing on the theme of judgment, we miss the deep pain expressed in the story.  That pain, of course, being the pain at the very heart of God.  The flood narrative is not one that is about a vengeful God, watching and waiting for a screw up so that God might smote the evil-doer, which is the image a lot of people when we speak about the judgment of God.  If that is the understanding of judgment that you bring to the flood narrative, then you’ll quickly miss the point.

Judgment is not something God revels in, takes pleasure in, especially according to the flood narrative.  God does not chuckle gleefully as God throws lightning bolts at random sinners.  Instead, the reality of evil and God’s judgment of it is something that breaks God’s very heart.  “And the Lord was sorry that he had made humankind on the earth, and it grieved him to his heart” (Genesis 6:6).

The flood narrative stands as a testament to the tension that we humans see in the character of God, and the tension that we struggle to live with in ourselves, namely the tension between righteousness and justice versus love and mercy.  But at some point God must declare evil and evil and must do something about it else, as Miroslav Volf noted in his book Exclusion and Embrace, God stands complicit in it.

The theme of judgment in the flood narrative is counterbalanced by the theme of covenant, namely that God will not destroy the creation.  Instead, the exact opposite is promised, that the creation is spared God’s wrath, that God places God’s bow in the sky, that the weapon is laid aside for a new way.  This is the counterbalance to God’s observance that the earth was “full of violence” (6:11); God will not fight fire with fire as it were.  Instead of destroying violence through more violence, God seeks the new creation promised in the covenant with Noah, which would then be enacted through the later covenants with Abraham, Israel, and brought to fullness in God’s work in Jesus.

“That,” Walter Brueggemann observes, “is the substance of the gospel.  The God who rules over us has turned toward us in a new way” (Brueggemann, Genesis, Interpretation, 85).  In the flood, the biblical narrative makes its case for why evil persists in the world, where the Bible gives the answer the great question of “Why doesn’t God just do away with it all?”  And this is because God has chosen not to but instead has committed God’s self to this creation.  

What God termed “very good” in creation is something God has chosen to not abandon, but chose to enter into covenant with in order that it might be redeemed and restored.  And I don’t know about you, but in this world “full of violence” I find that to be good news.

Shalom,
Geoff

May 18, 2008 – Trinity Sunday (Year A)

Genesis 1:1-2:4a - link to the NRSV text

Before I begin the humbling task of trying to offer commentary and reflection on this portion of Scripture, first and foremost I want to encourage us to stop and to go and read the text. Read it closely, carefully, allowing our minds and hearts to be opened to the wondrous mystery of the Creator God who speaks all things into existence, who brings order to chaos. Read it aloud, hear its rhythm, its resonance, its beat. See its imagery, hear its sounds; enter deep into this text and allow the Spirit to sweep into us, much as the Spirit swept over the face of the waters. Before you too quickly move on to sermon and preaching, let me encourage you to hear this magnificent confession and testimony about God anew.

The reason I encourage these things is because of the very poetic nature of Genesis 1:1-2:4a, for it is just that. It’s poetry. In my honest opinion, part of the problem of the modern evolution/creation debate is one of category or genre confusion. For too long, the modern Western world has read this text with its own assumptions and through the lenses of its own categories.

We read a text like the creation story in Genesis 1 as if it is claiming to be history or science in the modern understanding, when the reality is that the this text cannot really be placed in such neat, clean genre classifications in ways that we would prefer, especially considering its poetic style. The author’s purpose is not to outline history or a scientific theory, but to offer a poetic theological reflection on creation, on the nature of its creatures, and on the God who brought it all into being.

Pope John Paul II clearly recognized this idea when he shared these thoughts on science and Scripture:

The Bible itself speaks to us of the origin of the universe and its make-up, not in order to provide us with a scientific treatise but in order to state the correct relationships of man [sic] with God and with the universe. Sacred scripture wishes simply to declare that the world was created by God, and in order to teach this truth it expresses itself in the terms of the cosmology in use at the time of the writer. Any other teaching about the origin and make-up of the universe is alien to the intentions of the Bible, which does not wish to teach how the heavens were made but how one goes to heaven (as quoted in “Evolution: Religious criticism and acceptance” at Brittanica.com).

This text is not science, it’s not history, but it is poetry that expresses joy, wonderment, and awe in creation. It confesses full trust in God’s power and authority; rejecting ancient divine combat myths as the source of the world’s origin, like with Marduk creating the heavens and earth out of the carcass of the slain goddess Tiamat, the author instead sees a God that just speaks and all creation bows to God’s bidding.

In fact, this act of God speaking provides the basic framework for the text. Verses 1-2 act much like a prologue, setting the stage; then a common refrain structure book-ends each section: “God said…And there was evening and there was morning, a xth day” (NJPS). And when this God speaks, things happen. “God said, ‘Let there be light;’ and there was light” (v.3). Multiple times the phrase “And it was so” follows God’s speech. God declares what reality shall be and it thus becomes reality.

God speaks, and in doing so God simultaneously acts. And at the heart of this speech-act is God’s declaration about the creation, namely that it is “very good” (v. 31). Creation is not an after-thought or by-product; the universe and all things that are in it aren’t slime beneath God’s notice. Instead, God creates and takes pleasure in the creation. God’s creation is judged by the one who made it and it is seen as very good.

As Walter Brueggemann describes it:

God and his creation are bound together by the powerful, gracious movement of God towards that creation. The binding which is established by God is inscrutable. It will not be explained or analyzed. It can only be affirmed and confessed. This text announces the deepest mystery: God wills and will have a faithful relation with earth…The binding is irreversible. God has decided it….The mode of that binding is speech (Brueggemann, Genesis, Interpretation, 23-24).

Lastly, God creates humans, makes them in God’s image, and creates them male and female. Far from the image of man and woman in Genesis 2-3, in Genesis 1 male and female are created together, as if they were equal but distinct reflections of God’s nature. Thus there is a sense that you cannot properly conceive of God without the masculine and the feminine.

One could easily get bogged down in the cosmology, in the order of creation, in all the details, but that is somewhat losing the forest for the sake of the trees. Instead, from a homiletical standpoint, the most proper approach to this text is to speak like the text. Or to paraphrase Fred Craddock, to preach the Bible we need to preach like the Bible. The text is poetic, majestic, awe-inspiring, emotional, full of images and movement. To try and pare the text down to science or to pick apart words and phrases, to focus on the trees so much that you lose the majesty of the forest does a disservice to the flow and rhythm of this kind of text.

As you study the text, and as you preach it, invite yourself and invite your congregations to hear and see the mystery of creation, the wonder of the heavens, the beauty of the earth. Ultimately, let the text be the text, let it speak and move. Give the brooding, hovering Spirit room to move in your midst, sweeping over the dark waters of our hearts, ready and waiting to be made a new creation, restored just a little bit more to the image of God we were originally created in, finding anew God’s creative and nourishing love for us as we ponder “the story of the heavens and the earth when they were created” (2:4a NJPS).

Shalom,
Geoff