Well, a lot has happened since we left Joseph in the
hands of the Ishmaelite traders bound for Egypt
last Sunday. Here’s the short version. Joseph is an
uncommonly gifted man with a special talent for dream
interpretation that serves him well in tight spots. So
well, in fact, that he makes his way over the course of
time from prison to the palace, where he rises to second
in command under the all-powerful Pharaoh. By the
time we meet him this week, he is not only an influential
leader, but he is also an entirely acculturated Egyptian.
His dreams of abundance and famine shape decisions
that expand his power and Egypt’s reach. Eventually,
that famine forces the family of Jacob to seek support
from Egypt. During that time, Joseph hides his identity
while testing his brothers’ character. Ultimately, Joseph
can hold the secret no longer, and in a moment of high
drama after twenty-two years of estrangement, the
brothers hear words that would have shocked them.
“I am Joseph, your brother.” First, he asks about his
father. Then, he reassures his brother. That moment
with Benjamin gets me every single time. Joseph saves
his family from starvation. Jacob blesses Joseph’s sons,
and then Jacob dies and is buried back in Canaan. The
family returns, and just when you think the drama of
Genesis is over, one more chapter unfolds.
You must remember this. Joseph is by now a man of
immense power, and he has always been a man of
unpredictable behavior. His brothers have yet to pay
for their mistreatment of him as a teenager, and Jacob,
whose love and devotion held the family together,
is gone. The brothers are rightly filled with fear and
anxiety. They send Joseph a message claiming that
Jacob had left on his deathbed instructions that they
be pardoned. Clever. And yet, anyone who has read the
story up to this point would not be surprised if Joseph
had his brothers thrown in prison or sent packing back
to their homeland. He has reason to doubt their motives.
And he certainly has the authority to punish them.
But something significant has shifted in Joseph,
something that his brothers could not have known. You
hear it in the exchange between them. The brothers
rush to Joseph. They beg him to forgive them, to
remember their father, to act with compassion. They
offer themselves as his servants. And when he hears
them, Joseph—this abandoned brother and governor
of Egypt—begins to weep. For me, it is one of the most
poignant moments in all of scripture. In the place of
punishment, Joseph offers an extraordinary promise.
I will care for you, my brothers, and your children. Your
home will be in the land of Egypt. And then, in one of my
favorite examples of Biblical understatement, the author
of Genesis writes, “In this way he reassured them,
speaking kindly to them.”
I think Marilynne Robinson gets it just right. “This is not
a pardon. It is grace.” In a recent conversation, Robinson
marveled at the moment. She said, “It’s a very beautiful
image of grace that I think of having no parallel in
ancient literature. To be able to look beyond the offense
rather than to forgive the offense is the difference
between grace and forgiveness.”
So, we find at the end of Genesis this human being,
this human creature capable of both crafty cunning and
commendable compassion, this complex man exercising
the restraint that has marked God’s action from the
very beginning. As he does this, Joseph asks a riveting,
rhetorical question.
Am I in the place of God?
Here’s my confession. I had always assumed the obvious
answer to this question is “no!” Joseph is distancing
himself from the providence and power that belong only
to the divine. But two voices have shifted my perspective
on this question. The first was a friend of mine who
pointed out that, in the land of Egypt, especially relative
to his brothers, this is precisely the place Joseph
occupies. He holds absolute power. He could do
anything he desires to his brothers. They are refugees.
He is the proxy of Pharaoh. Is Joseph in the place of
God? For all practical purposes, the answer is yes.
The second voice belongs, no surprise, to Marilynne
Robinson. She answers the question in this way:
“Yes, Joseph is, in the sense that his mercy toward his
brothers seconds what he sees as God’s will. In the
sense that he sees beyond a human conception of
justice…” I want to say that again. “He sees beyond a
human conception of justice.” And so, given this Godlike
power, Joseph chooses to act with Godlike restraint.
Now, for a preacher, this unanswered question—Am I in
the place of God?—offers an intriguing opportunity for
reflection. For while it is self-evident that we are not in
the place of God in any far-reaching effect, the query
might be reasonably rephrased this way:
What are the realms of your influence? In what areas
do you have power and agency for good or ill?
Now, the answer to that question will be different for
each of us, but all of us should have one. And so, the
follow-up question: will you use that influence in ways
that reflect the God you meet in scripture? I think
this is complicated in our moment. There is a, to me,
regrettable assumption among many that compassion
among the powerful is another word for weakness. A
friend I hold in high regard recently wrote in response to
a call for mercy, “Sometimes one has to be ruthless.” I’ve
honestly wrestled with that. Ultimately, I conclude there
are two fatal flaws in my friend’s reasoning.
First, there seems to be no end to the cycle of retribution
unleashed by ruthlessness. In other words, sometimes
quickly becomes most of the time and then anytime
I choose. Rarely do we see ruthless behavior have a
peace-giving effect on those on whom the ruthlessness
is released. Or in the words of a favorite axiom, never in
the history of calming down has anyone calmed down
by being told to calm down.
Second, I have a high degree of skepticism about my
ability to determine who is deserving of ruthlessness.
And I think you should too. We humans are prone to
excess, especially when it comes to anger. Can you trust
yourself with the means of power to unleash violence?
Here Joseph offers an extraordinary counterexample.
He sees his brothers, the very ones who abused and
abandoned him, but he sees something else. He sees
people in profound need. When he looks at his brothers,
he sees their hunger. He sees their absolute vulnerability.
And, in his own power, he sees the plan of God. His
specific words matter here. Joseph says,
Even though you intended to harm me, God intended it
for good… in order to preserve a numerous people.
Joseph sees the providence of God not in the power he
has amassed but in the lives he can save. He promises
to care personally for his brothers and for their “little
ones,” that is, the most vulnerable among them.
I submit that Joseph has learned what it means to be
Godlike in the use of power.
And so, this moment of reconciliation between brothers
begins the final chapter of Joseph’s story. It will be
focused entirely on the future. Joseph lives to see his
great-grandchildren, and when it is time for his journey
to end, Joseph is surrounded by his brothers. He
speaks aloud the promise that God will lead them out
of Egypt, and he makes this request: carry my bones
to the promised land…the home of my ancestors, the
resting place of my father. And with that, Joseph’s wild
and winding journey leads him back to what has always
mattered most. He dies surrounded by his family.
Of course, the story continues. Marilynne Robinson
writes, “Genesis can hardly be said to end…The whole
great literature of scripture, unfolding over centuries,
will proceed on the terms established by this book.”
Joseph’s family remains in Egypt. When a new Pharaoh
rises to power, they spend four hundred years as
captives in that land. They are centuries of silence only
broken when God hears their cries and responds with
liberation. Let my people go. When God’s people are
freed, their leader Moses carries with him the bones of
Joseph. In other words, they do not forget this sacred
act of grace, this Godlike restraint. But more than that,
they inscribe it in the law.
When Moses delivers God’s commandments to his
people, expectations of compassion are rooted in this
collective experience. Look it up. Exodus 23:9: “You shall
not oppress a stranger among you, for you know the
heart of a stranger. You were a stranger in the land of
Egypt.” People of God, listen to this. We are commanded
to identify with the most vulnerable to abuse. We are not
permitted to turn away from those in deepest need and
call ourselves faithful while doing it. On every page of
our sacred text, Godlike compassion begins with those
who need it the most. In the scripture it’s the orphan,
the widow, the alien. And in our time, very little has
changed. We are meant to identify with the strangers
whose lives are at great risk. With no place to call home.
With not enough food to fill their empty bellies. With
voices silenced by hatred and hearts filled with fear.
Without protection or provision.
You must know that retribution, rage, and ruthlessness
are the ways of Pharaoh. And yes, from the vantage
point of human power, they are efficient. They get
the job done, if the job is consolidation of power and
subjugation of enemies.
But to be Godlike is to follow a different path. To see in
the stranger a sibling, in the foreigner a member of your
family, in the impoverished an imprint of God’s image.
Joseph looked on his brothers with the eyes of the
divine, and he used his power to serve. He ended this
life with a deep sense of fulfillment. He did his part. His
memory endures as a blessing.
Scripture is not subtle here. There will be a reckoning.
Somewhere, sometime, the question will be asked:
When members of your human family stood before you
in need, what did you see? What did you say? What did
you do? When the opportunity was before you, how
did you respond? May the record show that we served
the God whose sovereign will is rooted in mercy. Let us
leave no doubt in the minds of those who come after
us that we chose compassion, even when it was hard.
Because while the story of God goes on, our days will
come to an end. O God, give us the courage and the
wisdom to extend the grace you have so freely given.