Sermons

Sun, Mar 08, 2020

Go!

Series:Sermons

Have you ever had an experience when you felt utterly alone…

utterly helpless…

utterly empty?

Have you ever had an experience… 

when those around you didn’t seem to understand what you were going through…

because they hadn’t experienced it themselves?

 

Alone, helpless, empty––

although there are many experiences in which we might feel those feelings…

most often we experience them with loss:

when the job to which that you have given your life disappears in a puff of smoke;

when something with huge sentimental value goes missing;

when you are betrayed by someone whom you love;

or when your marriage falls apart.

But we particularly feel alone, helpless, and empty under tragic circumstances:

when someone whom you love has died before their time––

the victim of some incurable disease…

a violent crime…

or a road accident;

when the sense of grief is magnified by the shattered hopes and dreams…

the lost opportunities…

the “what-ifs” and the “could-have-beens”.

And, under those circumstances, it’s east to get caught up in it all––

to dwell on the “what-ifs” and the “could-have-beens”…

to rant and rave at the injustice…

to blame others…

or to blame God.

And it can be hard to admit that you can’t cope…

or that you haven’t really dealt with it properly.

It can be easy to get angry with those who remind you of what has happened.

It can be easy to wallow in self-pity;

or, secretly, to yearn for the attention that comes from grieving.

Such an experience can colour your outlook on life forever after… 

so that you’re unable to let go…

unable to move forward…

unable to live.

You can become trapped in an idealised past…

over-react to the smallest upset…

or inappropriately take on-board someone else’s grief and pain.

And the longer that you stay there––

the longer that you stay that way––

the more entrenched it becomes…

until it’s expected…

normal…

and, in a strange way, oddly safe and comfortable.

And it becomes hard to change even if you wanted to––

better the devil you know, and all of that….

 

That could easily have been Abraham’s experience––

given what had happened in his life, according to the Genesis narrative.

After all, just prior to our reading, we’re told that he had no children;

that his wife, Sarah, was barren.

Now, in ancient times, that was a fate worse than death.

It meant having no one to look after you in your old age;

no one to carry on the family name.

It made you a source of public ridicule and pity, even shame…

forcing you to put up with sideways glances…

furtive whispers between neighbours.…

or the room suddenly going quiet when you entered.

Abraham and Sarah would have endured that shame and ridicule for most of their adult lives.

They would have endured the anger and frustration;

the long nights lying awake wondering ‘why?;

what had they done wrong?;

were they being punished for something?;

what could they have done differently?

Abraham and Sarah were a family without hope:

people for whom the future was bleak;

people for whom there was no future;

people dwelling in their own private hell…

but one to which they had grown accustomed.

 

And yet, into the bleakness and barrenness of their lives, God spoke.

God breathed words of hope––

as in the Genesis creation narrative, God speaking forth life out of nothingness:

Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you”.

It was a promise of new life, a new beginning;

an end to their misery and shame;

an end to their anger and frustration;

an end to their suffering and grief;

an end to their experience of barrenness and emptiness.

But that promise doesn’t come like a wish from a genie.

The promise begins with a call: “Go!

Leave behind your life as it now is.

Leave all of it behind.

Leave behind your suffering and pain…

your unresolved grief…

your irrational fears…

your self-pity.

But, more than that, leave behind your whole way of life:

your safety and security…

your sense of control.

Leave behind every barrier and protection that you have erected…

everything that currently shapes who you are.

Leave it all behind and go.

Let go of anything and everything that is holding you back.

And go––

not knowing where you will end up.

Go–– 

simply trusting in God.

 

But, isn’t that the paradox of life?

It’s pointless clinging desperately to the past…

trying to live in a memory––

whether it’s a pleasant one or a painful one.

It’s pointless wallowing in self-pity.

It’s pointless trying to stay just where you are…

afraid to risk…

afraid to really live…

in case you get hurt again.

Because to cling to safety and security is to remain barren. 

It’s only by taking a risk––

of letting go and moving on–– 

that you find a way out.

It’s only by taking the risk of being hurt again––

taking the risk of further suffering…

heartache…

grief…

and loss—

that you find your hope renewed.

It’s only by trusting in the promise of God–– 

even when there’s no immediate evidence to support it—

that you find life.

 

And yet…

there’s nothing to suggest that Abraham was particularly special.

In fact, we’re not told anything about him prior to this story––

except who his forebears were…

and the fact that he and Sarah couldn’t have children.

There’s no suggestion that he was especially virtuous.

There’s no suggestion that he was deeply pious and religious…

or that he possessed particular attributes or qualities or skills.

In fact, we hear nothing about Abraham the person prior to this episode.

And, frankly, some of the stories that follow this one don’t paint a particularly rosy picture––

he was prone to cowardice, dishonesty, and moral lapses.

And perhaps that’s the point.

Perhaps this silence is meant to indicate his very ordinariness––

that Abraham was simply an ordinary man…

flawed and fallible…

quite unremarkable. 

He was one who knew grief and pain…

and he was one without a future or a hope.

And yet, he was an ordinary man who heard God calling him to go…

to leave his past behind…

to move on…

to step forward into the future…

where he might find new and abundant life…

and where he might discover his true self.

As the Danish theologian, Søren Kierkegaard, asserts: 

“To dare is to lose one’s footing momentarily; not to dare is to lose oneself”.

 

And, in the end, is that not the message that continually accosts us from within the scriptural story?

God holds out to us the promise of new, full, abundant life…

but that new, full, abundant life only comes to us in and through the experience of letting go… 

of taking a risk…

of being willing to forgo comfort and security…

and, indeed, embracing loss…

and even death…

in order that we might truly live.

That is the story of Abraham.

That is the story of Jesus.

That is our story too.

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