Here’s the sermon I preached this last Sunday. Read below or watch with link above; it’s much better heard and seen rather than read. Starts at around 31:40. Make sure to check out Alex Bonte and Derek Tam performing “Canaan Bound” by Andrew Peterson after the sermon ends.
I have lived in a lot of different places in my life. When I left my home in Colorado and went to college in Iowa, I had a hard time. I missed my land, I missed the way the rocks crunched under my feet when I hiked, I missed the color of the dirt, the taste of the air, the familiar mountains that shouldered up against my hometown, and just knowing my way around—I felt ownership of the place. I’ve re-started my life in about four different places, and I still always miss my home in Colorado.
One of my favorite musicians is a guy named William Elliott Whitmore. I first saw him in concert when I was at Grinnell College in Iowa. He didn’t have a band; just his guitar, his banjo, and his foot with a boot on it that he stomped into the stage by way of percussion. When the concert ended, he had left a divot in the stage where his foot had been. Check him out; he’s awesome.
By way of that introduction, He’s also a native Iowan who loves his home. Seems about every third song of his is about his emotional connection to Iowa. He has a song that’s just about the soil called “Black Iowa Dirt” that is all just about his engagement and relationship with the soil—“I put that black Iowa dirt on a biscuit, I put that black Iowa dirt in my tea, I put that black Iowa dirt in a big ol’ bucket and I carry it around with me.”
I can kind of relate to that—I take pink Pikes Peak granite rocks from home because it seems like taking a piece of home with me. It’s me trying to carry home with me, wherever I go. I don’t think it through too much when I grab these—it just seems like an important thing to do. I want to hold onto it, I want to hold onto home.
Home is not something you can easily explain to someone else. Home is home, you know? You may not be able to explain it to someone in a way that will dazzle and convince them with a logical argument about why your home meets these and these and these criteria to make it objectively the best. But it is yours, and is in your veins, It always lives with us.
In this passage from Genesis, God speaks to Abram and asks him to leave home. His family has been rooted here. He knows the land, where to get what he needs, and his family surrounds him, he is connected in; he probably baby-sat a lot. But God tells him to leave. And it’s not like, after he left, he could get in a plane and come back—he would leave forever. I wonder if he took something from his home—a rock, a twig, a bucket of dirt—to remember the place, or if he was fully ready to turn his face forward to a new place that was uncertain, but promised.
At our last On Tap meeting at Jupiter, one of our young adults there said that this passage resonates with his own feeling of being deep in the throes of transition. A lot of young adults, myself included, so often are conditioned these days to go to where the jobs are, where the next degree program is, follow the opportunities, be flexible, regardless of place. A sense of home becomes more and more relative. But we keep following a promise—of success, generally.
In the scripture, God promises that “I will bless those who bless you, and curse those who curse you.” This is pretty challenging, right? God is going to curse people because they first curse Abram? But this person at On Tap heard this as God saying “I’ve got your back, through everything, through anything. I’m with you, and I’ve got your back.”
God calls on Abram to do something radical, difficult, and probably aching with grief. Leave your home. Leave what you’ve known. God doesn’t even tell him where he’s going yet! but Abram heard God—and he trusted God enough to say “yes”. And so he goes, bound towards Canaan. And God promises to have his back, and Sarah’s too, as they go forth.
There’s new life in leaving home, in leaving what is familiar. I firmly believe when we disrupt our comfortable, broken-in patterns, these cracks develop. And these are where God enters in. It seems like God is in the places where we are surprised by how we survive and even thrive in new ways and in new places. We get a better sense of who we are and who God is when things change; when our old ways of being are challenged and shaken up.
The OT and Gospel texts for Lent this year all seem to touch on the idea of transition. In all of these stories folks are being called, pulled or driven out from their current realities to something new and transformative. This is part of the legacy of Abram—exalted ancestor, who, as God continues to bind them together in covenant, becomes Abraham—ancestor of a multitude.
Paul picks up the story of Abraham in his letter to the Romans, “Abraham believed God, and it was reckoned to him as righteousness.” This is an important distinction between believing in God and believing God. You can believe in ghosts or aliens—it’s about how you interpret the scattered evidence to represent real existence. That’s more the believing in God. But believing God goes down much deeper. Believing God is trusting God.
It can feel hard to trust God. God can feel like a remote and mysterious power, and some ways of talking about God seem to reinforce this. Especially when God’s mystery and transcendence are appealed to when painful or shocking things we can’t understand happen, this just seems to crank that gulf open wide between us and God. But I think the story of Abraham here moves us the opposite way—to be blessed by letting God come near to us. But how do we trust God?
We can trust God because God, like a loving parent, gives of Godself for our good. God is also making a transition in this new covenant in Jesus. And when God gave up power to enter our world as a person just like us. To be known intimately with us, and to show us ways of doing relationships in new, life-giving ways.
God tells Abram that through his descendants, the world will be blessed. How does Abram bless the world? I think Paul’s perspective brings this back around—Abraham believed God—he had faith enough to leave what was comfortable behind–and it was reckoned to him as righteousness. I wonder if leaving our comfort zones is where that blessing comes in. Where we are closer to God because everything else may feel unsteady. When we’re vulnerable and open, because we may not rely on ourselves or our expertise in the same way.
That is the way I think of righteousness—when we acknowledge that we’re not in control. When the layers of security and posturing we build up around ourselves are peeled away to the place where we can stand upright before God complete with all of our messiness, and relax into the faith that we are safe in God. And then, further, when we act in the fullness of belief that God has our back.
Blessing isn’t in comfort or windfall, blessing is in being loved by the God who loves the unlovable, who gives hope to the hopeless, who comforts the afflicted and afflicts the comfortable. And the extent, the trajectory, of that blessing, that blessing first in Abram, is that we are equipped by God’s power to do the same to others. We are empowered to love the unloveable, to bring hope to the hopeless, to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. That’s the place where God is. That’s the place where God empowers us. That’s the blessing.
This is our deepest strength. When we accept that our strength does not come purely from ourselves or the things we do, but comes from God going before us and loving us so strongly that we can stand up with a courage and a promise not entirely our own. Our trust in this is our righteousness.
Abram believed God and it was reckoned to him as righteousness. He trusted that God was working for good. And I believe that when he accepted God was for him, he could stand tall, have the courage to leave home, and bring his full self before God. He could go from the broken-in and static present to a future that was uncertain, but full of promise. God comes to us full of love, with a voice that thunders, and promise that surprises and disturbs. We may be called and we may be changed, but we will never be abandoned. Because God has our back. Amen.