Sermon - Laughter in the Abyss

“Laughter in the Abyss”

Seventh Sunday after Pentecost

June 29^th, 2008

Sermon preached by Mr. Matthew Ruttan

Genesis 22: 1-19

Psalm 13

Romans 6:12-23

Matthew 10: 40-42

And it happened after these things that God tested Abraham. And He said to him, “Abraham!” and he said, “Here I am.” And He said, “Take, pray, your son, your only one, whom you love, Isaac, and go forth to the land of Moriah and offer him up as a burnt offering on one of the mountains which I shall say to you.”

Quite frankly, the text is terrifying. It is the kind of scary story that is so incredible; so inconceivable; that it leaves its readers and hearers bumbling around in the dark wondering if they have indeed just seen and heard what they have indeed just seen and heard.

We can’t help but ask ourselves – because we have been trained over the years to want to mimic something of what goes on in these stories – “Would I offer my child as a sacrifice if God asked me to?” Our answer is, most likely, “No,” and we are left contradicted (maybe) and grumbling (definitely). “Any God who would ask that is not the God I know. Nor is it a god I want to know,” we likely say to ourselves. “Let’s just pass this one by,” we suggest, “and skip to some non-problematic story in the New Testament where Jesus says he loves everyone.”

With this story we do seem to have entered a morally suspended universe. And yet, the burning question remains, if not out loud, at least in the echoing recesses of our soul: “Do things like protecting and loving our families take priority over responding to God’s command, whatever it is?” But we must also ask: Is that even what this story is all about? Maybe. Maybe not.

When I began preparing this sermon I remembered a conversation I had with the Reverend Cameron Brett after my first month of seminary three years ago. It took place during coffee hour after Sunday worship and Reverend Brett asked how my new seminary adventure was going and what I was working on. I responded that everything was well and that I was busy researching my first assignment in my Old Testament class: a major research paper on this very passage – Genesis 22 – when God commanded Abraham to offer his son Isaac as a sacrifice in the land of Moriah. He smiled; looked at me with those wise and knowing eyes of his; and in a way that exuded a kind of compassionate pity replied, “Well, they sure didn’t waste any time throwing you into the deep end, did they?!”

Reflecting on and trying to interpret this story in a way that doesn’t make ministers and congregations want to jump off a cliff, and, even more, in a way that tries to honour its complex, profound narrative and its existential implications for the modern life of faith, has been the life work of some of the most brilliant thinkers the world over. One of them, Soren Kierkegaard, the 19^th century Danish philosopher, writer, and Church critic, even produced a whole book as a result of his own wrestling with the story. What did he call it? Fear and Trembling. Listen to these words he wrote trying to come to grips with some of the consequences of the story and what our faith might mean in light of it:

what a tremendous paradox faith is… a paradox which is capable of transforming a murder into a holy act well-pleasing to God, a paradox which gives Isaac back to Abraham, which no thought can master, because faith begins precisely there where thinking leaves off. [1]

But this morning as we wrestle with this story I would like to propose that we ask ourselves this: Who is Isaac in this story? I make the suggestion because it is customary to only focus on God and Abraham. But how can we neglect Isaac? – a young boy who set off on a great three-day adventure with his dad, only to end up bound on an alter; the only thing between him and a distant sky, his father hoisting up a meat cleaver. So who is Isaac in this story, really? Is he only Abraham and Sarah’s second son? Is he only a boy in a terrible situation beyond his control? Or is he something more? Does he represent some-one or some-thing? Perhaps by asking these questions we can look into the abyss; discover something therein; and live more hope-filled lives because of it.

The name Isaac means “he-who-laughs.” It’s a name that hints at a bit of cruel contradiction especially since names in the book of Genesis tend to foreshadow something in that person’s life and character. Further, names usually reflect something of the situation into which a person was born. In Isaac’s case when God told Abraham that his wife Sarah would bear another son – and keep in mind that they were both qualifying for senior citizens’ discounts at this point – Abraham laughed. Later, Sarah also overheard this same promise of a son and joined her husband in his laughter – knowing full well that she was far past her child-bearing years. She said, “After I have grown old, and my husband is old, shall I have pleasure?” She later denied her laughter in God’s presence saying, “I did not laugh.” But God knowing replied in a way that seemed to reveal a kind of divine sense of humour saying, “Oh yes, you did.”

At Isaac’s birth it was laughter that welcomed him into the world; and therefore, that was his name. Isaac: he-who-laughs. And so his mother exclaimed,

“God has brought laughter for me;

everyone who hears will laugh with me.”

With these words we get the sense that it was a kind of joyful laughter; the laughter one has when something wonderful and unexpected comes knocking; something that seems too good to be true. And so, for some reason, the human response in these situations is often simply to laugh; perhaps because of the absurdity of it all.

But the Hebrew language is here ambiguous enough – or more accurately, powerful enough – for us to also translate Sarah’s words at Isaac’s birth in this way:

“Laughter has God made me;

whoever hears will laugh at me.”

In this respect, the laughter that came into the world in their second son Isaac was itself pregnant with a complex tension: on the one hand, the potential for joy; and on the other, the potential for mockery. It was a tension further compounded by the fact that Isaac was no ordinary son. He was special. He was special because it was through him that God’s covenant with Abraham’s family would continue. Through Isaac many children would be had; descendants would grow into great nations; those nations would be blessed; and a land would be given to this wandering nomad family. He was a special son for a special people. And so his birth was marked by laughter – a laughter that foreshadowed both joy and mockery.

Soon, God called out to Abraham and storm clouds blew over Isaac and his family. We know what God asked. And immediately in response Abraham took Isaac – the one who we are reminded was his only son, whom he loved; as if to make the idea of the sacrifice even more excruciating – and set off to the distant land of Moriah. For three days they walked together. Can you imagine the tension? Can you imagine the schizophrenic journey: a joyful boy on a special trip and an anguished father keeping his thoughts to himself, wondering if he was being mocked by God; wondering if the covenantal promise God had made to him was all for naught. Again we feel the tension of laughter: joy and mockery.

As they arrived at their destination father and son went off to worship. Isaac, perhaps starting to put the pieces together asked, “Father!... Here is the fire and the wood but where is the sheep for the offering?” “God will see to the sheep for the offering, my son.” No, Abraham did not lie. Perhaps he just couldn’t yet bear to reveal what he was about to do. Perhaps he wanted the innocent joy-filled laughter that he knew to be alive in Isaac’s heart to be preserved for just a bit longer. Ironically, Abraham as a father still wanted to protect his son even as they walked up the mountain together toward the dreaded altar where there would be no protection.

One of the peculiarities of the story is that while he was being tied-up, Isaac never said a word. The laughter had been silenced as it became clear what was happening; as Abraham prepared the offering and lifted the cleaver into the air. And then at that last possible moment, a tortured salvation: “Abraham, Abraham!” an angel urgently interrupted. “Do not reach out your hand against the lad, and do nothing to him, for now I know that you fear God and you have not held back your son, your only one, from Me.” And after seeing a ram caught in a bush Abraham offered it instead. And looking around at the mountain theatre that had just exposed his soul – the wilderness that drew him many days away from any sense of security or home; the mountain that brought an old man within seconds and inches of cutting off his future – he called it “YHWH-Yireh,” meaning “the LORD sees.” There was indeed vision, for Abraham had just looked into the abyss. Perhaps God did too.

For God’s part – maybe because he knew the mental and physical chaos the test must have caused Abraham – he then assured the great patriarch with his very Self that the covenantal promises would be fulfilled on account of his trust in God. All his great hopes would come to pass. Perhaps this gave Abraham some comfort. Perhaps.

So getting back to our question: Who is Isaac in this story? Is he just an innocent pawn in a terrible test of obedience?

For centuries the Church sought to interpret Isaac as a foreshadowing of Jesus. The reasons for this are primarily twofold. First, it is a story about a father and a son – Christian language for God the Father and Jesus the Son – that employs sacrificial language. The main difference in the New Testament of course is that the sacrifice was completed. No angel called out at the last minute to stop the nails from going into Jesus’ hands and feet on the cross. The second reason is that Isaac was given wood to carry up the mountain by his father. The wood for the burnt offering is thought to parallel the wooden cross that Jesus carried up the mountain on the way to the dreaded Golgotha.

But today, perhaps we can suggest something different by looking more closely at Isaac’s role in the book of Genesis.

Isaac was more than a person. His life – much like that of his father and eventually his son Jacob – embodied the covenantal promise between God and God’s people. Isaac was what Abraham expected and hoped his future would look like. He was the basket into which Abraham had put all his eggs; all his hopes; all his dreams of a brighter future when his descendants would multiply and grow and finally find a home. Isaac was the vessel of hope.

Who knows, perhaps this is why God tested Abraham. Perhaps he had seen Abraham turning to his favoured son Isaac as the only one who could fulfill these promises; the only one who held the key to a hope-filled future. Of course, there is only one problem with that: God on the sidelines. And on Mount Moriah – the place where the Lord sees – Abraham was indeed given the opportunity to see just as the Lord sees: he saw and experienced with his very being that only God is saviour; only God is the giver of hope. No one else.

Might we speculate that today Isaac is not merely Abraham’s son. But rather, he is something that has been conceptualized in our Christian tradition as a great vessel of hope: us. Might we speculate that Isaac is the Church.

By suggesting that Isaac is the Church we are invited to engage in an analogy and magnify this ancient story in a new way and ask ourselves: How can it inform our mission to witness to God’s covenantal promises in this world?

In many respects the analogy makes sense because we, as a Church, are entering a foreign land far from the familiar ways of the past. And this is despite the fact that we haven’t geographically gone anywhere. Might we say that Moriah has come to us? We are entering an abyss of sorts; the unknown; a place where fewer and fewer people see the world like we Christians (and we Presbyterians, for that matter); a place that seems alien; a place that is not quite as cut and dry and black and white as it used to be.

We have been led to this place by our ancestors in the faith whom we call the saints; that great cloud of witnesses of whom we confess our faith every time we say the Apostles’ Creed; who faithfully trusted us to be Christ’s vessel of hope; the one thing that could shine the light of God’s promise into an uncertain future.

But if we are Isaac the analogy is unsettling. Part of the reason for this is because – quite frankly – Isaac doesn’t do much. He’s so passive that you sometimes want to yell at him. “Isaac, get up! Do something! Run! Save yourself!”… But maybe that’s the point.

From first to last in this prophetic text – God is in control. In fact, everything about how God deals with Abraham and Sarah and Isaac and Rebekah and Jacob and Rachel is in a way that reminds us that despite their planning and despite their scheming – all hope comes from God and God alone.

Despite their efforts, at the end of the day, God will use any means necessary to bring into fruition the hope-filled future that God wants. Whether that’s granting a child to someone well beyond their child-bearing years; picking an ancient people who were infinitely weak compared to other great nations to be his own; or raising up a Messiah who suffered a criminal’s death. For us it is clear: God doesn’t care about the odds. And that’s a good thing.

In completing this analogy it must be asked, whether or not the saints who have gone before us – and who, according to this analogy – hold Abraham’s cleaver up in the air over our heads, will hear the voice of an angel, telling them to put down the cleaver because God has decided to use us. Perhaps since we haven’t yet experienced the answer one might suggest that we pray to the saints seeking to gain their favour! But of course, as a good Presbyterian, I would never suggest this – not only because Calvin would spin in his grave but because I would effectively be calling off my own ordination this evening.

In this unsettling story the good news is this: God keeps his promises. This Church – the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church of Christ – will be the vessel of hope to the end of the age. But before we get there – brace yourselves – there may be some trauma. We will have joyful adventures, yes; but we will also be taken places we don’t want to go and which we don’t recognize. We will be led into unfamiliar territory. We will be made vulnerable. We will question the wisdom of the community of saints whom we have grown to trust. And, just as the Lord sees, we too will see that everything is in the hands of God.

But perhaps Isaac can leave us with one other last reminder; one last piece of advice for our journey ahead: let us laugh along the way. Let us laugh in joy at the fact that God moves in mysterious ways – choosing a slave-people to be his own crown and delight; choosing a young, scared Jewish woman to bear the Saviour of the world; and choosing an imperfect Church like ours to be a vessel of hope.

Yes, there will be laughter in the abyss. And some of it will not be with us, but at us. For with joy there will be mockery. We will go right when everyone else is going left. We will speak out when everyone else is urging silence. We will hold up Jesus of Nazareth – God in the flesh – to the cries of scepticism and despair. But we will know that all that laughter – both good and bad – points us to the promises of God.

In the end – if we are to accept this analogy that Isaac can be seen as a foreshadowing of the Church – we can smile trusting that it is always God who has the last laugh. In which case, may our own laughter be a hope-filled foreshadowing of that great and triumphant day when the whole world will come together holding hands, feasting on the best food and vintage wine, and singing praise to God. On that day, the joy-filled laugher of a young boy and his mother will be forevermore. Ha-ha-lelujah! Amen.