I wonder if you have ever noticed that some questions
sound more like dares. Here’s an example. Do you really
believe that God is in control? If so, why this mess?
I confess I wasn’t prepared for that one. Not before 8
AM, in Starbucks, from a stranger, when my air pods
were giving a clear signal that I was not available for
any conversation, much less a theological debate. And
yet, I probably should have anticipated it. After all, there
was a Bible on the table in front of me, right next to it
Marilynne Robinson’s book Reading Genesis.
The very first line of her book reads, “The Bible is a
theodicy, a meditation on the problem of evil. This
being true, it must take account of things as they are.
It must acknowledge in a meaningful way the darkest
aspects of the reality we experience, and it must
reconcile them with the goodness of God.” In other
words, the question of God’s control is crucial to the
subject of our sermon series.
And that same question runs like a vein through the
story of Joseph. It’s the longest and most dramatic
narrative in Genesis. Its arc stretches across fourteen
long chapters and more than a century of elapsed time.
From birth to betrayal. From slavery to sovereignty.
From Promised Land to Egyptian Empire, we track the
life of this complex man and the complicated family to
which he belongs.
Now Israel loved Joseph more than any other of his
children. Uh oh. Here we go again. Parental favoritism is
nothing new to the stories of Genesis. Remember, Jacob
himself was a favorite. And so, he proudly parades his
preference for Joseph right in front of his brothers.
When we meet Joseph, 17 years old, he is, in Robinson’s
words, “young, bright, and self-infatuated, blind or
indifferent to the resentment that is already stirring
around him…” With pride, Joseph recounts a pair of
dreams he had in which his brothers (we assume)
symbolically bow down to him. Friends, this is not a
method for endearing yourself to your older siblings.
It is, however, a very good way to stoke the flames of
their resentment.
This is exactly what happens, of course. They conspire
against him. They first plan to kill him and finally settle
on a deep pit, where they toss him in with no water. It
is the desert after all. Then they sit to enjoy their lunch,
presumably in full sight of their brother, now deep in a pit.
Ultimately, Joseph’s life is spared by the value he holds to
some traveling traders. For twenty pieces of silver, they
are rid of their brother for good. No more parades. Those
dreams will never become reality. Or so they assume.
But Genesis gives us a tasty bit of foreshadowing when
the brothers say to one another, “We shall see what will
become of his dreams.” And so, they shall.
Joseph and his brothers belong to one human family
whose story is the story of the whole human family. This
family is chosen by God, not for its particular holiness,
but as representatives of universal themes that play out
differently in each context. Perhaps you remember the
opening line of Tolstoy’s novel Anna Karenina: “Happy
families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy
in its own way.” So it is with the family whose narrative
fills the pages of Genesis. And I think we can take some
comfort in their selection. Despite the filtered pictures
and carefully curated posts that fill our social media
feeds, we know the truth. Families are messy. Families
are complicated. Relationships are difficult and often
painful. We are most capable of wounding and receiving
wounds from those who are closest to us.
We know it by experience and by intuition—human
beings tend to make a mess of everything, especially
the relationships that are most meant to sustain and
nourish us. How often we find ourselves immediately
regretting a harsh word spoken to one we love. How
many opportunities for deeper connection we forfeit by
choosing selfish pride, or cold detachment, or grudges
delicately nursed, sometimes for decades. The gift of
Gensis is that it is not disconnected from this reality.
Quite the contrary. And so, we in the Church should be
very careful not to turn scripture into a kind of sacred,
sanitized story of saints unsullied by sin. The Bible will
not permit this kind of reading. Marilynne Robinson
described it as the “special genius” of scripture that it
sees no one as simple. This is certainly true of Joseph
and his brothers. We are meant to see in them a kind
of mirror, a mirror of our own brokenness and our
capacities for good. More on that next Sunday.
It may have occurred to some of you careful listeners
that there is one notable absence from this morning’s
scripture readings, from the whole of Genesis 37.
God. The God whose voice and presence have been
ubiquitous in the stories of Joseph’s ancestors. We find
God all over the stories of Abraham, and Isaac, and
Jacob. But God is absent from Genesis 37.
Why is the voice of God never heard in this troubling
story of human interactions? How can there be no
divine intervention on Joseph’s behalf? Where is God
in this story? Do you believe that God is in control? If so,
then why this mess?
Perhaps you have asked that very question as you
navigate the choppy waters of relationships. Maybe
you have lamented the absence of God in a moment of
profound suffering or a season of deep grief. Or you’ve
questioned how God could possibly allow evil to endure
and the innocent to bear the brunt of abuse at the hands
of the powerful. You may feel that way today.
In the story of Joseph, and in our own stories as well,
we must occasionally read between the lines if we are
to find God. In Genesis, as we’ve seen time and again,
humankind is never without agency or choice. Humans
have freedom. We have autonomy. And the effects of
this autonomy often take the form of destruction and
demonization. We are capable of such catastrophe.
Brothers, plotting to kill their own kin. And yet, this is
not the whole story. We shall see what will become
of Joseph’s dreams, because the dreams of brothers
bowing down are not the only ones Joseph will have.
Dreams are the constant of Joseph’s life. Though hidden
and invisible, the dream is the work of God on which
all will depend. You could say the dream sets its own
course. And in the end, the dream prevails.
Through his brothers’ deplorable and deceitful action,
Joseph finds himself quite unexpectedly in Egypt, where
the dream lives on. And many years later, as second in
command to Pharaoh himself, Joseph’s dreams save this
family from starvation in the land of promise.
Like Jacob in his sackcloth of grief for a lost son, like
brothers blinded by jealousy and driven first by rage
and then regret, like Joseph whose journey takes
him from depths to heights by fantastic means, we
may think we know how our story ends. We may be
convinced that all is lost, that we’ve fallen too far, that
the forces of light and goodness are defeated. And if
you are tempted to believe this—please hear me now.
This is not the end. Growing seeds do not make much
noise. I remember my mentor’s words to me in a time of
deep fear and doubt in my own life. “Chris, you cannot
prove the promises of God in advance, but if you live
them, they’re true every time.”
The dream. The dream sets its own course. The dream
lives on.
The choice available to us, every day in countless ways,
is this: where will we place our attention, and where will
we devote our energy? Will we be captive, victim to the
endless cycle of rage and retribution? Or will we look for
signs of light and life and use our agency, our energy, to
extend and expand them?
Early this week, I had the opportunity to spend about 72
hours at Ghost Ranch, a Presbyterian retreat center in
northern New Mexico. I was there with a group of twelve
pastors from all over the country for a time of reflection
and prayer. We stepped away from the rushing current
of our lives, and we did it together because it’s easier
that way. Ghost Ranch is the perfect place to retreat.
For some reason, it felt natural in that place to go hours
without checking the news or reading messages.
(Apologies for all your emails still waiting for my replies!)
The high desert is a testament to the grandeur and
beauty of God, as well as the astounding resilience of
creation. That place is part of a long story. Mesas that
were home to dinosaurs in the late Triassic Period over
200 million years ago. Trees whose sturdy roots have
held through hundreds of years of wind and unrelenting
sun. Every direction I turned, there was testimony to a
God who plays the long game. Witness to the truth that
even the desert is home to growing things.
Of course, while we were gone, the world kept turning.
Horrific acts of violence continued unabated. The most
vulnerable among us—sick babies, hungry children,
impoverished elders, those without home or homeland—
were caught in the crosshairs. Yes, we stepped away,
but the endless cycle of chaos and wrath, rage and
reaction, rolled on. On the plane ride home, I read the
words of grief-stricken family members whose loved
ones did not make it home.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, a wise teacher said,
“Our purpose here is to transform people so that they
can transform their communities when they return.”
It was a mission statement, a reminder that there is
work. There is work that is ours to do. Right in front of
us. Friends, the providence of God does not absolve
us—it emboldens us. The God who fills the arroyos with
lifegiving water and rescues Joseph from the waterless
pit will surely make a way for us in the wilderness.
And so, we come finally to the answer I wish I’d given in
Starbucks last week, though I imagine my interlocutor
would have been unsatisfied.
The answer is yes. Yes, I believe that God is in control.
Not as a puppeteer, but as author of a story still
unfolding. Yes. Yes, I believe that God’s ultimate vision
is one of mercy and grace, of compassion and justice.
Yes, I believe that the promised day will come. And I
also believe that God’s mercy manifests in restraint that
makes space for human beauty and compassion but
does not conceal our brokenness.
God leaves work for us to do.
As it is in Joseph’s story, so it is in ours as well. God’s
dream sets the course. Despite detour, delay, and even
despair, we must find the courage to trust and the faith
to follow this dream. Amen.