How the Story Goes [Proper 6A - Genesis 18:1-15, 21:1-7]

The Rt. Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Genesis 18:1-15, 21:1-7

 

How the Story Goes

St. Luke the Physician, Saranac Lake

 

In the heat of the day, on the horizon of the desert, the distance is always out of focus.  The hottest heat bends and warps reality.  Abraham was trying to find a bit of relief, an occasional breeze, as the world around him was trying not to melt into a puddle of chaos.

 

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. 

 

And so, given the treacherous conditions, the patriarch was probably not expecting to see a traveling trio come into focus.  But there they were: three men walking in his general direction.  Abraham should have instantly kicked into threat assessment mode.  They were three; he was sitting solo at the entrance of the tent.  He was old and so was his wife.  And that made them vulnerable.  And these were strangers – the kind of strangers strong enough to power through the heat of the day, in the dead of the desert.

 

His body was supposed to tell him flight, and perhaps it did, but he flew in the wrong direction.  Abraham ran toward the threat.  He should have been afraid of them, but instead he was afraid that these strangers might perish in the desert.  All he could think of was their well-being.  They should not have been out there; it was dangerous.  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.  But that possibility, as possible as it was, did not break his stride, or prevent him from the vulnerability of honoring these strangers with a posture of deference.

 

This is not typically how this story goes.  Because the world is far too hostile; there is so much to fear.  We are reminded of this on the regular – fear is the engine of political campaigns; it is the lifeblood of media empires.  In a world of borders and boundaries, walls and locked doors, Abraham was heedless; he did not check IDs; he did not even ask questions.  He ran like the prodigal’s father.  And he bowed down as if the lives of these strangers were more valuable than his own.

 

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. 

 

He risked hospitality amidst the threat of hostility.  And it paid off.

 

Abraham offers the mysterious strangers a simple pit stop: a little water, a little bread, a little R & R.  They accept.

 

But this plays out like an unusual bait and switch.  Abraham surprised these wanderers with extravagance

 

This is not typically how this story goes.  Abraham and Sarah live in a desert.  It is a place of scarcity.  Even the bread and water were a generous offering.  Perhaps one might dip into their meager savings for friends or family.  But these were strangers.  And they weren’t even expecting a lavish spread; they did not ask for any more than the bread and water.  Abraham did not have to be so extra.  These visitors could not leave a bad review on Google; they could not trash Abraham’s offering on social media. 

 

But he gave until it hurt.  He didn’t give them leftovers or the scraps from the tent’s dusty pantry. He butchered a calf—one of the tender and good ones. And then the great patriarch became a waiter. He stood by them under the tree and served them while they ate.

 

And when the waiter approached the table to refill their milk glasses, they asked about something else instead: Abraham’s wife, Sarah.  Sarah had been in the kitchen making cakes.  But she was close enough to hear the guests spouting nonsense.  She thought it was milk on the menu, but maybe Abraham was actually pouring White Russians because they were saying some crazy stuff.

 

Those of you who have read Genesis know that Sarah’s infertility is a painful plot point in this story.  And by the time the three strangers arrive, “it had ceased to be with Sarah after the manner of women.”  In her old age, she has resigned to reality enough to laugh instead of cry.

 

And though the guests are offended by the laughter, the laughter is certainly understandable and justified.  They were predicting the impossible.  She was far too old – president of the United States old.  And so, perhaps you can forgive her skepticism. 

 

Of course she is skeptical.  Fertility science has made some strides during the past three thousand years, but Sarah knew enough to know that people pushing triple digits don’t have babies.  It is just not typically how the story goes.  And so she likely dismissed the entire encounter as a bizarre mirage, a fever dream in a desert world.  That is, until her belly started to grow, until she became a blossoming garden in the desert.

 

After birth, Sarah remarked, probably to every person who mistakenly congratulated her on her adorable great-grandchild, “Who would ever have said to Abraham that Sarah would nurse children?”  And the answer is: no one.  Because that is not typically how the story goes. 

 

And yet, it did.  Because of God.

 

Fear makes sense in a violent and dangerous world.  Scarcity makes sense when there never seems to be enough.  Skepticism makes sense because it so effectively guards our fragile hearts.

 

But God invites us to open our hearts, open our hands, open our minds, open our eyes - to discover that, because of God, we live in a world of wonder.