Is anything too wonderful? [Proper 6A - Genesis 18:1-15

 The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson 

Genesis 18:1-15 

 

Is anything too wonderful? 

 

It was hot in the desert.  Blazing hot.  One could smell the stale brine of the Dead Sea from Mamre.  And in that suffocating heat, one could also feel a hint of the death for which the sea was named.  It was not the most hospitable place.   

 

The heat is why Abraham was sitting at the entrance of his tent.  There was no possibility of air conditioning, no refreshing glass of iced tea in his weathered hand.  But the entrance of the tent at least provided some shade and an occasional breeze.  You could survive there – and that was saying something.   

 

As he sat and sweltered, Abraham looked out over the vast expanse of sand.  He let his mind wander as he watched the air melt above the scorching surface.  There was nothing else out there – nothing to see except sand and heat.  

 

Until there was something.  That is when he saw them: three men walking in his general direction.  They should not have been out there; it was not safe.  If they were anything other than a mirage, it was very concerning.  They could burn up in that heat.  They could die.  He did not know them, did not recognize them, but, at some level, he understood them.  Abraham and his family, they too were desert wanderers.  And so he knew these mysterious visitors were in danger.  Or, even worse, were a danger. 

 

He didn’t wait to access the risk.  He ran.  Despite the heat, he ran.  And, despite the heat, he bowed down to the ground before them.  On that scorching surface, on that hot sand.  A man of advanced age, on the hostile ground, at the mercy of three strangers. 

 

The world has never been safe.  What Abraham did was risky.  He had no idea of their intentions.  He had no idea whether they came in peace, were friend or foe.  Marauders roamed those deserts; they stole and slaughtered.  They preyed on nomadic families, like Abraham and Sarah.  It was well known.  And Abraham was old; he was vulnerable; kneeling at their feet, he was before them in a position of submission.  His life was in their hands. 

 

Because they were his guests.  The goodness in his response was not spontaneous.  Goodness is something that is cultivated, nurtured.  He had spent almost a century ordering his priorities, sorting out his soul.  In the hierarchy of his values, Abraham prioritized kindness and hospitality over safety.  That is a valiant, but precarious, lifestyle choice.  Sometimes, in some places, that does not pay off.  In this case, in this story, it very much did. 

 

It probably didn’t take much to convince these strangers to get out of that heat.  Abraham’s initial pitch was a little water and a little bread – the basics.  The three were satisfied with the offer.  Pretty much anything is preferable to a mouth full of dried out tongue and grains of misplaced sand.   

 

But Abraham decided to bid against himself.  Again, kindness and hospitality.  He promised water and bread.  He and Sarah delivered cakes of choice flour and some delicious, tender beef and succulent curds and some sweet, refreshing milk.  It was an extravagant feast, one that took time, care, and sacrifice to prepare.  And it was laid out before strangers. 

 

What Abraham and Sarah did not, and could not, know was that these three strangers were special.  They were not locals.  In fact, they had made a long, strange trip: from the realms of the divine.  Their journey began in heaven.  These visitors were not of this world. 

 

And perhaps because they were not of this world, they were not well-versed in what constitutes appropriate after-dinner conversation.  Their hosts had been beyond generous, exceedingly kind, far kinder than the hosts in the next town will be.  And they return that generosity by pouring salt in an old, open wound. 

 

You probably know their story.  Abraham and Sarah had desperately wanted children.  But as the decades passed, that door had closed.  The possibility ended with age; time is undefeated; bodies do not live or make life forever.  And the couple had to live with that, let it go, grieve what needed to be grieved, and then find meaning and happiness elsewhere.  It was painful but it was their reality.  And these strangers choose to make light of that pain. 

 

Sarah laughs, famously.  But who could blame her?  Sometimes we laugh so that we don’t cry.  A pained laugh.  A defensive laugh.  The kind of laugh that shields the heart.  The kind of laugh that is formed by the sands of time and the trials of life. 

 

But still it must have seemed like a cruel thing for the strangers to say; Sarah was clearly past the age conception.  The two parties didn’t know each other well enough to tease like that.  Or, if they weren’t joking, at least maybe it was a comment that felt trite and cheap.  Words meant to paper over some pretty intense pain. 

 

But the strangers meant it.  They were serious.  To them it was not trite; this was not a laughing matter – and they made sure Sarah understood that.  They did not mean to make Sarah laugh; they meant to make her hope.   

 

They leave the generous couple with a question that silences the laughter, a question asked but not answered in this text: “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?” 

 

It is a difficult question – so difficult that it feels eternally confrontational, like it is always challenging our souls.  Of course we want to answer, “No, nothing is too wonderful for God.”  But a “yes” hedges our hope, protects our heart, moderates our expectations, keeps us from being disappointed.   

 

The world in which we live is often not wonderful.  And while we certainly wish it was, to hope for a wonderful world feels naïve, dangerous.  It is easier, for us, and for Abraham and Sarah, to accept the harshness of reality and dismiss divine possibility with a strained chuckle, with the kind of laugh that shields the heart. 

 

Is a world without war, without school shootings, without drug addiction, without starvation and poverty, without despair and suicide actually possible?  Can we scrape together enough hope to dream of that reality?  Or does it seem like a cruel joke?   

 

“Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?” 

 

I’m not sure if Abraham and Sarah ever answered the question.  It just hangs there in the air.  And then the divine visitors leave, disappear back into the vast desert. 

 

But I think that old couple entertained at least a small possibility that the promise could come true – even though it was, admittedly, impossible.  Because, the truth is, no one gets pregnant without trying.  And no one tries without at least a grain of hope.    

 

Faith does not require us to be sure, just to believe that God can still do wonderful things in this world and in our lives.  We might not have all the answers to the big problems that haunt our globe, but that’s OK; we don’t need the answers, we just need a little hope.  Because, as Abraham and Sarah proved, God makes the world wonderful through the people who have just enough hope to try.