There’s
a temptation whenever we come together in public celebration to blur the hard
edges of history—to glaze over the challenges of our past for the sake of our
present. And it’s easy on a day like this to talk about fluff. It’s perhaps easier
still to recite a litany of those ministries that this congregation has
accomplished over the last century and a quarter. We’ve had much of that so far
this weekend and there will be time later for still more. For my part I feel
compelled to offer something different, because the readings for today so
happen to be some of the most challenging and serious in all of scripture, and
I’d be doing you a disservice to ignore them.
Two months ago, I
first noticed that the narrative lectionary we are using for the summer was
going to cross paths with our 125th Celebration just as we hit the
story of the sacrifice of Isaac, and so I found myself with a choice: change
the readings or leave it alone. It would have been pretty easy to move things
around—none of you would have even known about it had I done that—but something
was nagging at me. Here we were making a big deal about “faithfulness” as the
theme for this celebration, and what would it say about faithfulness, I
wondered, if we ignored this story? That was my first thought and like many
faced with tough decisions, my initial reaction was fearful. Are we brave
enough to hear this on a day whose tenor is so distinctly celebratory? But
importantly, fear did not have the final word. I had a second thought, and it
was something like this: What would it say about us if we did tackle Abraham
and Isaac head on? What would it say if we were unafraid of the most difficult
questions raised by our faith? That this is a story where faithfulness is put
to the test sealed the deal. The sacrifice of Isaac would stay.
This is a story
about an ethical dilemma. Abraham is faced with a quandary that we may find to
which we may find ourselves impossibly removed. It is awfully tough to put
ourselves in Abraham’s shoes and ask, “What would I do if God commanded this of
me? What choice would I make?” If you’re like most people, the question almost
sounds like blasphemy. Nobody wants to decide between God and family, between
love and faithfulness, between a child and a promise. We don’t want to think
about a God who would ever ask us for such a choice, and yet here it is. For
all of the wonder that we are as human beings we remain paralyzed by choice. When
we have too many choices we are overwhelmed; but when we are left without a
choice we bemoan our lack of options.
Faithfulness and
choice often go hand-in-hand. History is made when men and women rise above the
fear and paralysis that come from weighing difficult options, and finally make
a choice to dive headlong forward, often straight into the unknown. One hundred
and twenty-five years ago nineteen adults and seventeen children dove in and
established a Swedish Lutheran Church
in Hallock, Minnesota. One year later they chose to
bring together resources enough to construct a building. In both of those
instances somebody had to step out on a limb and dive into the unknown. Every
one of those choices represented those early members of what would become Grace
Lutheran taking the harder path, rejecting the status quo for the sake of a
calling to create something new. Again and again over these 125 years Grace has
been put to challenging decisions. Remarkably, we’re still here.
It’s remarkable
because as far as I know at no point in the history of this congregation did
anybody have all the necessary info to make a completely informed choice. And though
our choices are not always as serious as Abraham’s, they are often no less
convoluted. Sometimes we have to make a decision between impossible choices where
no option can be considered good. That is Abraham’s dilemma: does he give up
the son for whom he had waited over a century or disobey the God who gave him
Isaac in the first place? Neither would do. The amazing thing about Abraham is
not that he followed through on God’s command—we can debate the morality of
that choice all day long—the amazing thing about Abraham is that he was able to
make a choice at all.
Faithfulness is
taking a stand for God even when God asks the impossible.
Our church stands
where Abraham stood. Maybe the stakes aren’t as high, but then again maybe they
are. Abraham’s walk up the mountain to sacrifice his son foreshadows Christ’s
walk up to the cross, and as disciples of Christ we walk the same path in turn.
To be a disciple, Jesus said to pick up your cross and follow. Choose the
harder path. You have the choice between sacrificing yourselves or rejecting
God’s promises. Neither looks like a very good choice, but it’s the same decision
that Abraham faced. Do we live for ourselves or die to ourselves? Do we live
for God, or, like Peter denying Christ in his time of need, do we become
ashamed and fearful in a time of crisis?
It’s been said too
many times that the church is always one generation away from extinction. The
truth is that it’s much more dire than that. The church is always moments away
from its death. Every time the church turns inward and loves only itself, it
dies a spiritual death. Every time the church fails to proclaim Christ and
becomes only a social club, it dies a spiritual death. Every time the church is
paralyzed by choice or fearful of the repercussions, it dies a spiritual death.
But every time the church makes the harder choice to walk where Abraham walked,
to proclaim Christ crucified and risen and to shout it out in the face of every
power of the world that says that’s not
really such a big deal; every time the church is what the church can be,
what the church has been, and what the church will be when Christ comes again,
then this church has done the impossible and has picked up its cross and
followed—to its death, yes; but ultimately to its resurrection!
A good church dies
every day, just as a good Christian dies every day. Every day we get up and say
to ourselves, “Well, church, we haven’t really been the kind of church we
should be. We didn’t feed the hungry; we didn’t clothe the poor; we didn’t
visit the homebound, or give hope to the hopeless. We didn’t do a very good job
of being Jesus to the world. We’re sorry. We messed up. But today we will
rise. We will be Christ. We will make the harder choice. We will reject
sin, the devil and all his empty promises. We will be the church, not as we
have been for the past 125 years but as we will be today and tomorrow—now and
forever.”
As Abraham walked
up Mt. Moriah to sacrifice Isaac he gave us the
blueprint for everything that we do. He was faithful—even to a fault, even when
faithfulness seemed to be the crazy thing to do. So we are faced with our own
Moriah, our own Isaacs, our own things we love more than life itself. Are we
willing to offer them up to God? Are we willing to step out on the most
precarious limb and trade our comfort for uncertainty? It’s the question we
face every day, and remember: the church is a moment away from failure; we’re a
moment away from turning our backs on the God who brought us thus far by faith;
we’re a moment away from death.
So was Isaac.
It’s only when the
angel of the Lord breaks in at that last second, with Abraham’s knife raised
precariously over his son, that we find the greatness of God’s faithfulness. A
moment away from death, Isaac is saved. A moment away from our death, the
church looks unblinkingly forward and says, in the words of Martin Luther,
“I admit that I deserve death and hell, what
of it? For I know One who suffered and made satisfaction on my behalf. His name
is Jesus Christ, Son of God, and where He is there I shall be also!”
Amen.
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