September 21, 2025 - Isaac, Rebekah, Jacob and Esau: Wrestling with Hard Honesty

Reading:  Genesis 27:1-4, 15-23; 28:10-17 

Sermon 

Pastor Emillie pointed out the humor that is inherent in the story of Jacob, Esau, Rebekah, and Isaac, as she preached about the way we often assume we can figure out what God's will or the way we think that will should manifest itself. She compared it to the Laural and Hardy shorts where the audience sees the absurdity and can't help but laugh as it plays out. 

I have read humor in many passages in the Bible and have had similar reactions. Looking for morals or life instructions is not necessarily what we can best take away from this story..  

Jacob’s story remains, at its heart, a wrestling with honesty. When he stands before his blind father, disguised as his brother, his voice betrays the deception even as his hands feel like Esau’s.

Later, when he finally meets Esau face-to-face, Jacob cannot hide behind masks anymore. He bows, he trembles, and he offers gifts, not because he has suddenly become blameless, but because he is finally facing the one he wronged. 

What passes between the brothers is not the clean slate of truth-telling, but a hard, trembling honesty born of failure, estrangement, and longing for reconciliation.

This kind of honesty is not easy. It does not present us as pure or whole. It admits that we have deceived and been deceived, hurt and been hurt. But it also holds out the possibility that peace is still possible. This happens, not by pretending the past never happened, but by acknowledging it and stepping forward anyway.

That is why Jacob’s dream matters so much. The ladder does not appear to a righteous man, but to one fleeing his lies. Heaven meets him precisely in his wilderness, when all his schemes have collapsed. God does not wait for Jacob to tidy up his past or prove his worth. Instead, the dream interrupts him with a fierce grace: even here, God is present.

In our fractured moment, where words too often wound, where honesty is traded for spin or silence, we are invited into Jacob’s kind of honesty: an honesty that names our harm without excusing it, an honesty that risks reconciliation, an honesty that opens us to grace in unlikely places.

The peace of Jacob’s dream is not escape from conflict, but the presence of some connection between heaven and earth, God and us, and, perhaps, between estranged siblings and fractured communities. To live this honesty is to stand at the base of the ladder, not climbing away from struggle but rooted in it, carrying heaven’s weight to earth and earth’s grief to heaven.

Perhaps then, like Jacob, we may awaken to the trembling truth: “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it.” And perhaps, like Jacob and Esau, we may find that even broken beginnings can open into unexpected embraces.

 

September 21, 2025 - Revisiting Jacob's Dream Today and Dreaming Different Dreams

Reading:  Genesis 27:1-4, 15-23; 28:10-17 Jacob's Dream

Half of the people can be part right all of the time
Some of the people can be all right part of the time
But all of the people can't be all right all of the time
I think Abraham Lincoln said that
I'll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours
I said that.     Talkin' World War III Blues: Bob Dylan

We are living in a time of fracture. Families estranged over politics. Friendships frayed by a single post. Congregations splintered by unspoken hurts. In such a world, where belonging feels fragile and disagreement feels dangerous, what if peace began, not in grand declarations of principles, but in how we speak to one another?

Our words are increasingly less neutral. Many often deepen wounds or begin to stitch them closed. In the Jewish tradition, lashon hara warns against speech that harms, anything that diminishes another unnecessarily. In the Buddhist tradition, “Right Speech” asks: Is it true? Necessary? Kind? If we paused long enough to ask these questions, how many fractures could be healed?

This is the context from which I approach this week's reading: Jacob lies down in the wilderness. He is fleeing from his mistakes, estranged from his family, and uncertain of his future. With only a stone for a pillow, he rested on hard, uncomfortable ground and was restless in his soul. In that vulnerable night, he dreams of a ladder set upon the earth, reaching into heaven. Messengers move up and down, carrying heaven’s weight into the ache of earth and bearing earth’s grief into the mystery of heaven.

This vision was not given when Jacob was strong or righteous. It was given when he was broken, when his story had collapsed. The ladder appeared not above a palace or a temple, but in this rocky wilderness, where Jacob had nothing but uncertainty.

Currently, our nation is passing through a wilderness moment. The stories I was once told about our nation, our communities, and even God's church appear to be unraveling. I have recently questioned, "Hadn't we already climbed higher and moved beyond brutality, prejudice, and exclusion?" However, I also know others who long to return to simpler times when the neighbors we encountered daily were more like us. Or maybe they may just desire to achieve more authenticity and better opportunities than I ever thought possible when I was young. People accuse each other of being woke or of being helpless dreamers.

And yet, perhaps, like Jacob (and like the Akedah text from last week), when we feel as though we are falling apart, it is here that God interrupts us. Not to reassure us that we are blameless or particularly righteous, but to remind us that heaven still touches earth, even here, even now.

No dream removes Jacob from the wilderness or saves him from the danger facing him. Instead, he is shown a connection. He is shown that God is already present in the mess of the moment, and that there is no place where the holy cannot meet us.

Is this unraveling really a failure, or an invitation? An invitation to honesty. To humility. To the fierce truth that we are both broken and beloved, both capable of harm and called to healing. To embody some of that truth-telling we all saw in the Holy Disruptors that we studied this summer. 

The peace of Jacob’s dream is not the absence of struggle. It is in the threads of connection between heaven and earth, God and us, woven together even in our rocky wildernesses. However, we should remember we may be among the messengers Jacob saw moving up and down, carrying heaven’s weight to earth and bearing earth’s grief into the mystery of what we call heaven.

This call is not to climb ladders as if to escape, but to stand at the base and recognize where we are as messengers needing to recognize our unique connections. To live and dream with honesty in the tension of this moment. To resist despair, but also resist denial. To let grief humble us, and humility open us to fierce love.

Hopefully, like Jacob, we will be surprised by grace in unlikely places. May we awaken to admit to one another, with trembling honesty: “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it.” And may this moment not harden our hearts, but humble and move us to grasp and grapple with mounting each of our collective ladders..

This is another moment where we may choose to be broken open, not apart. To listen to, respect, and live in each other's lives and dreams.

September 14, 2025 - A Special Sunday of Worship and Music Filled with Spirit

From the first welcome, the tone of the service was one of warmth, openness, and shared joy. Children’s voices and movement were not only tolerated but embraced as part of the congregation’s living soundscape, reminding us that worship is not confined to polished performance but is a space where faith is formed in real time.

Musically, the service unfolded with grace and intentionality. The Gathering song, Come, Let Us Worship God from Dancing at the Harvest, set an introductory and celebratory tone that paired well with the Genesis readings. 

The Children's Sermon song "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands" was both inviting and grounding, helping prepare the assembly to hear the familiar but weighty story of Abraham and Isaac. It expressed the childlike confidence that allows our hearts to be attuned to God’s promises.

 Later, the Gospel acclamation Return to the Lord (from Marty Haugen's Tree of Life) and the offertory Come, Let Us Bring echoed this theme of trust and provision, layering scriptural depth with melodic beauty. The call and response structure Marty Haugen employed throughout this setting was executed perfectly by Chris and Marilyn with help from Tini, Suzi, and Gary.

Pastor Emillie's sermon tackled the troublesome aspects of God's command to test Abraham and the father's obedience: Sermon 

The congregation’s voice was never overshadowed by the leadership; instead, the music wove seamlessly into the liturgy, supporting rather than distracting from the texts. The Hymn of the Day, Here I Am, Lord (ELW 574), was a particularly moving moment of response after Pastor Emilie’s message. It allowed the community to voice their willingness to serve in the wake of Abraham’s trial and God’s providence.

Musicians Chris and Marilyn particularly deserve special note. Their performance was described by many as a “wonderful pairing” with listeners highlighting the natural chemistry between them. The interplay of voice and the piano accompaniment brought a sense of ease and harmony, underscoring the unity of the congregation’s prayer. Their music felt less like a performance and more like a gift, offered humbly to God and shared generously with the community.

The pair performed a wistful version “He Looked Beyond My Fault (And Saw My Need)” for Communion, the power of each built up the quiet intensity of the music. Set to the traditional Irish melody of "Londonderry Air" this haunting Danny Boy melody, with its strong connection to the Irish diaspora, functioned as a simple and fitting reminder that worship on earth is always a longing foretaste of the great song already being sung in glory. 

They ended with an equally powerful "Shout to the Lord". Overall, the service’s music was not only beautiful but purposeful. It carried the themes of promise, provision, and trust, and it invited the assembly to enter deeply into the story of God’s people. The sound in the room, unlike the Zoom recording, was balanced, seamless, and filled with good chemistry. This was worship that nourished both spirit and community on a drizzly Portland day.

September 14, 2025 - Impossiblity Becoming Reality: God's Promise to Abraham, Sarah's Laugh, and Akedah

Reading: Genesis 18:1-15

There is PPS series Bill Moyers “Genesis-A living Documentary". The pertinent episode for this week is called 107 - The Test.  

After the Creation story, this week's Narrative Lectionary drops us into Genesis in an interesting place. We arrive at Abraham and Sarah without first hearing some of the stories that shaped the world before them.

Genesis stories often narrate what happens and God’s response but leave out the why. This “narrative gap” invites wrestling with their meaning. Focusing on these other "gap" moments can provide context for the story presented in this reading (which has its own gap moments).

First, there is Adam and Eve's Temptation. Is disobedience what God wanted or expected from his creation? There are consequences for their defiance, but the word ḥaṭṭāʾt (sin) is not used. 

Then there are Cain and Abel’s offerings, where God looks with favor on Abel's. There is no reason given as to why Abel's gift is favored over Cain's. When God speaks to Cain before he kills Abel is the first explicit mention of the word “sin” appears in Genesis 4:7, “If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you  timshel (which either means must, shall, or may) rule over it.”

In the Flood story, why is Noah spared and not others? Scripture only states that he found favor in the eyes of the LORD, but doesn’t explain how Noah's righteousness was defined in comparison to others. And the explicit problem God sees with the construction of the Tower of Babel is left mostly to the reader to determine. 

All of these stories matter. They set the stage. They remind us that before God called Abraham, human beings were already struggling to live faithfully, already wrestling with violence, already longing for God’s promise to take root in a fractured world.

We know this story about Abraham and Sarah. Scripture also tells the story of Hagar, Sarah's handmaiden, and Ishmael, and the human plan to fulfill God's promise. How God views this plan has everything to do with faith, but it is not directly addressed. 

Their joy at Isaac’s birth is not simply the joy of new parents. It is the joy of watching God bring life where life seemed impossible. Isaac’s very name means laughter, and it is holy laughter, laughter that carries disbelief, grief, resistance, and ultimately joy. Sarah’s laughter is more than comedy; it is her voice. It contains agency, resistance, and a reminder that God’s covenant is not grim obedience but deep, surprising joy mixed, perhaps, with a "realistic" sense of disbelief. 

That joy is what is at stake when we turn the page to Genesis 22, the binding of Isaac, or the Akedah. This story has haunted generations of readers. There is even a famous Jewish midrash (Rabbah Bereishit Rabbah 55:7 ) where there is an imagined dialogue as Abraham questions God over each part of what God commands:

“Take your son.”
“But I have two sons.”
“Your only son.”
“This one is the only child of his mother, and that one is the only child of his mother.”
“Whom you love.”
“I love both of them.”
“Isaac."

However, this emphasis on Abraham’s internal struggle and uncertainty, while making him achingly human, is not written in the Bible. Too often, then, this sacrifice becomes a call to faith that focuses on blind obedience. Yet the real movement here is not primarily about God demanding violence; it is about God interrupting violence. This God of Israel is not like the gods of many nations, who have demanded child sacrifice. The ram caught in the thicket is a sign that God provides life, not death; mercy, not destruction. 

Yet we should not be tempted to sanitize this story. Isaac is portrayed as silent while bound, and his silence is a reminder that faith is not only a part of Abraham’s story, but also his son’s. Shouldn't Isaac's faith in God and, maybe Sarah's also, be considered and central in the Akedah? 

The vulnerable often bear the cost of religious obedience. Abraham, too, in Genesis, is silent. He once argued with God for the lives of strangers in Sodom. Yet in this account, he says nothing for his own son. Does the dialogue of the above-imagined dialogue change anything in the perception of Abraham's faith?

Many who trust because of the Akedah are convinced that God was finally convinced of Abraham's faith, and/or that this test reveals the true depth of Abraham's faith. They point out that, unlike today, people used to value their children unlike today, as their most treasured wealth. As a result, they are positive that this test would never be repeated now, particularly since no one "hears" the voice of God today. I don't share their confidence.    

I long for Abraham to wrestle here. What if Abraham had protested? What if faith had meant protecting Isaac, the child of promise? Might that, too, have been an act of radical faith?

The philosopher Søren Kierkegaard saw in Abraham a “leap of faith”, a paradoxical trust that defies reason. But we are left to ask: "Does true faith transcend ethics, or is faith found in standing for life and compassion?" The prophets, and Jesus himself, show us that faith and protest, faith and mercy, belong together. There are many parallels with this story and what Jesus was to go through.

However, this story will not let us escape its discomfort. Maybe that is a gift. For in the horror of Abraham’s knife, in Isaac’s silence, in Sarah’s laughter, we are asked: What kind of God do we worship? What kind of faith will we claim?

The binding of Isaac turns us toward a God who provides, who interrupts cycles of death, who calls us to resist violence in God’s name. Faith is not simply submission; it is also wrestling, questioning, and even laughing. And perhaps true worship is found not in silent obedience but in daring to trust the ways that God’s promise must find some to overcome death.

God’s command stops Abraham's sacrifice, “Do not lay your hand on the boy.”. That’s all God (through the angel) explicitly says. The ram appears providentially. Abraham sees as a continuation of God’s intervention, but this being an acceptable substitution is not verbally acknowledged. Abraham sacrifices the ram in place of Isaac. Abraham acts her by judgment and choice rather than command, in my opinion. 

Finally, I close by quoting this haunting poem. The author is a World War I veteran, and is cited in Bill Moyers' "The Test" episode.:

"The Parable of the Old Man and the Young" by Wilfred Owen

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
and builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

September 11, 2025 - Contemplating Political Violence Being Interrupted and Commerating 9/11

Today is 9/11. The 23rd year anniversary and a solemn date that invites reflection.

Yesterday, Creator's Bible Discussion focused on God testing Abraham's faith by commanding the sacrifice of Isaac. My thoughts linger on Isaac today.

And yesterday in our country, a public figure, Charlie Kirk, was murdered. For some, this was a tragedy; for others, it may have been met with indifference, or even a grim satisfaction. But no matter our political convictions, one truth remains: the murder of a political leader is not only an attack on one life. It is a wound to all of us. It is a mirror of the brokenness of our time. I simply shake my head today.

Whenever violence erupts, we look to the actors: Who did it? Why? What did they believe? But if we stop there, we miss something deeper. Violence is a flare sent up from the soil of our collective life. It signals that something toxic has been allowed to fester. We can't deny the polarization, alienation, and the inability to live together across our differences.

And as the spiral deepens, silence grows. We seldom pause to grieve together. We turn murder into news cycles, political leverage, and content fodder. What we refuse to mourn, we cannot heal.

This is not unlike the silences we encounter reading Genesis. Abraham is silent when God commands him to sacrifice his son. Isaac is silent as he is bound on the altar. Sarah, who once laughed at the promise of life, is silent here as the promise seems to dissolve into death.

And somehow, in that silence, remains the hope that our world is changing and God, somehow, is interrupting. The knife is starting to stop. There is a ram that will appear in the thicket. God provides life, not death; mercy, not destruction. This is a God who interrupts cycles of sacrifice, who breaks the assumption that violence is inevitable.

Ancient Scripture and today’s headlines met yesterday, for our group. Our world is so fragile. Words can turn to bloodshed in an instant. The vulnerable carry the weight. And too often, we are silent.

But God does not remain silent. God interrupts violence. God provides another way. And God calls us to grieve what has been lost, not to exploit it, not to numb ourselves, but to mourn together so that transformation is possible.

At Moriah, God stopped the knife. In Christ, God absorbed the violence of the world and answered with resurrection. And today, in a world that feels overcome by bloodshed and despair, God still speaks:

“Do not lay your hand on the boy.”
“Choose life, that you and your children may live.”

The question is whether we will hear that voice and live as people who continue to believe it.

September 7, 2025 -- Life in this Ongoing Creation from God Speaking

In Peter Brook’s stage adaptation of The Mahabharata, as the performance begins, a boy encounters Vyasa, the sage. Vyasa introduces him to this ancient Sanskrit scripture by saying:

"It's the story of your race, how your ancestors were born, how they grew up, how a vast war arose. It's the poetical history of mankind. If you listen carefully, at the end, you'll be someone else.”

Today Creator starts with the Narrative Lectionary Year 4 journey.  We will explore the books of Genesis and John in this coming season.

Sermon

During this morning's worship, the familiar first creation story of Genesis was celebrated, and later in this season, we will explore John's opening verses of another, familiar Biblical creation story starting with, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." The poetry John employs these inspired words to illuminate a great, revealed truth.

However, for years, while reading the creation story in Genesis, descriptions like the waters above, the waters below, and the firmament puzzled me. These powerful words are difficult to comprehend when picturing the Earth as the planet in space we see photographed now in space.

However, in the ancient Near Eastern worldview, which was shared in various ways by cultures like the Babylonians, Egyptians, and ancient Hebrews, “the waters above” and “the waters below” were part of a three-tiered cosmic structure, not simply poetic language. This proceeds from a different model of the earth, apart from our current "globe-in-space" model.

The Cosmic Layout consisted of  Above the sky as a vast cosmic ocean (“waters above”) and Beneath the land, was another watery realm (“waters below”), while between them was the earth, floating on, or set above, the watery deep.

In Genesis 1:6–8, God creates the raqia (Hebrew for “expanse” or “firmament”), which functions like a solid dome holding back the upper waters. The ancient beliefs didn’t conceive of empty space. Instead, the blue of the sky was thought to be water seen through the dome. It was not simply rain that came when God “opened the windows of heaven” (Genesis 7:11), but all the cosmic, chaotic waters.

"Waters Above" were heavenly seas, which described a great reservoir above the firmament. In Mesopotamian thought, this concept was associated with the abode of the gods, specifically the god Enlil, who was believed to control the weather. Indeed, this links in with the concept of the "spirit of God" as a word meaning wind or breath. The people of Israel saw this as part of God’s creative force, where the dangerous, chaotic waters were tamed and kept in place.

"Waters Below" were beneath the land. They were the tehom (the deep), a primeval sea.  Springs, rivers, and seas on Earth were fed from this deep..In some texts (like in Job), this underworld sea was also associated with Sheol, the realm of the dead, or with sea monsters like Leviathan and other chaos beings from the deep.

In the biblical imagination, the separation of waters represented God’s ordering of chaos into a habitable world..Flood stories (like Genesis, but also the Epic of Gilgamesh) describe the breakdown of this order, when the waters above and below burst through their boundaries.

Besides a different worldview, different translations may be important to understanding a particular text. I have always heard, one agreed-upon translation for the beginning of Genesis. "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth." Recently, hearing from two Hebrew scholars surprised and persuaded me by their proposal of a better translation for these opening words.

Michael Heiser (follow the link for a complete lecture on the implications of this better translation) and James Tabor both agree that a better English translation of Bereshit (Hebrew for Genesis) is "When God began to create the heavens and the earth."  

This moves the story from "creatio ex nihilo" (creation from nothing) to emphasizing God ordering the existing chaos through God's spirit or voice that was upon the water. When we hear the creation story rather than read it, this strength is made more apparent. 

This also clarifies that God's first act of creation is light, which contains a wondrous beauty. and divine affirmation that itself opens my soul. Something is revealed that wasn't apparent before. This is echoed in the gospel of John's creation story, where light becomes the "Divine Light" named as Jesus in that Gospel's opening words.. 

Examining the Hebrew word Elohim is used here rather than Yahweh. Elohim is actually a plural noun translated as "Gods", which suggests a different understanding we probably have as opposed to the God understanding shared by these ancient authors. This word is like heavens, which is also a plural noun referring to all elements above the land.

In Hebrew, another aspect worth examining is the "tree of the knowledge of good and evil" (etz ha-da‘at tov va-ra‘). Rather than the moralistic "right vs. wrong," it contains the meaning of comprehensive knowledge, or in other words, the full spectrum of human experience. Some Jewish interpretations emphasize that eating was not so much rebellion as a natural human drive to seek understanding. Humanity’s story begins with an act of curiosity rather than simply "sinning." 

Many rabbis treat these words as more than an explanation of the beginning of the world. There are scholars, steeped in this literature, who now think of Genesis as a directional meditation. It can consistently orient us, as humans, into a full and ongoing relationship with God and the world around us. The scripture stresses that creation is now a partnership between God and humankind, as implied by the fact that there is no "there-was-evening-morning" repetition after the seventh day of the Sabbath.   

In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God,
and the Word was God.

In the beginning, light was spoken into darkness.
And still the light shines.
The darkness has not overcome it.

Creation is not finished.
God is still speaking.
The Word still brings life.
The Word still makes all things new.

Every act of love is creation.
Every breath of justice is creation.
Every moment of compassion is creation.

The Word became flesh,
and still dwells among us.
We are bearers of light,
partners in God’s new creation.

Thanks be to God.