It doesn’t take much to imagine Sarai and Abram. Abram was ninety-nine we are told, and Sarai was well past the age of childbearing; old and childless. Abram was a wealthy man, we know from other texts, but as the years had advanced, even in spite of their riches; their most cherished dream had turned to disappointment as dry and dusty as the desert. No heir meant no future for them.  At some point there had to be resignation. We don’t get everything we want in life. There are things over which we have no control. Hope and vision are replaced by dreary defeat. We have all had dreams die. We have all been disappointed by life. We have all found the dry taste of dust in our mouths when that for which we hoped failed to come our way. We may have blamed ourselves; we may have questioned the reason. We may have been angry or bitter or sad and depressed, allowing our disappointment to wither our moods and our souls.

The Holy One appeared to Abram when he was ninety-nine. The dream was long gone by then.  Through aging eyes clouded by the years, the impossible happened: A promise-making God appeared and changed everything. The second Sunday in Lent, and God continues to make promises. This time the promises are to Abram and Sarai. Last week, the promise to Noah was for all humanity, it was so general, so vast, so sweeping. God promised not to cut off humanity with waters. It was a promise of nonviolence. There are stories of a flood in many ancient faiths, and like many mythical stories, different points are made in the different accounts. In the Genesis account, the promise was that God would not choose a violent end for the creation.

But this promise to Abram is so particular, so concrete. “I will give you offspring.“ In other words, God will give Abram a future. The future in an heir, good news in a child. This story narrows down as a creation myth of the Hebrew people. And what a story it is! Abram at ninety-nine, and his ancient wife, Sarai, long past her childbearing years, are chosen by God so that “all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” Now God chooses not only not to destroy, but also to bless; not death, but life. Hopes long dead are resurrected; the dust of disappointment becomes stardust dreams.

We are never told why God chose these two.  It is a telling omission in a meritocracy.  God is not interested in our judgments. God does things in God’s own way!

We learn through the accounts in Genesis quite a bit about both Abram and Sarai. They are not saints, by the classic definitions, at any rate. They are often clueless and headstrong. They make plenty of mistakes. They are, in other words, fully human.  It’s one of the things I love about these ancient texts: These stories are about people often as dim as I am, people slow to catch on to divine will, people who fail and fall and fall short. These are stories of people whom, in spite of themselves, God continues to claim, teach, and court; to shape and form.  

Abram and Sarai are to be given—of all things at their ages—offspring! They are to be the beginning of a new people. It has to be beyond their wildest dreams.  

And what’s their side of the bargain, their part of the deal? According to the text it is to “walk in [God’s] presence and be blameless.” The NRSV says: “walk before me and be blameless.” The New English Bible translation is:  “live always in my presence.” Doesn’t that remind you of title of that classic book on prayer by Anthony Bloom: “The Practice of the Presence of God”? 

Of course, my first question is a contrary one: Where exactly could one go to not be in the presence of God? Where, indeed, could such a place exist? After all, in Psalm 139 we read:

“Where can I go from your spirit?

Or where can I flee from your presence?

If I ascend to heaven, you are there;

If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.

If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.”

In other words, there is no place for us that is not in God’s presence.  

My own theology is best described as panentheism. I imagine all of creation to be ”in God”. To be more specific, my own image is that all of creation is in the womb of God, being nurtured by God. It is not a new concept, and this psalm is just one of the biblical images that supports it. So, my question remains: Where exactly could one go to not be in the presence of God?  

What is God asking of Abram and Sarai at this point if all of us are always in God’s presence?  I believe God is asking Abram and Sarai to be aware that they are in God’s presence; to know God and to acknowledge God. I think God is asking for them to join God as partners. After the promise of the rainbow, the promise of God’s own nonviolence, God is choosing another way to establish God’s plan—God’s vision—God’s Realm among humankind. God starts small, but with big dreams. A people. Two old folks surprised by a baby.  

God asks them to be conscious. Aware. To know. What can keep us more awake than a baby? Perhaps that may be all it takes to be God’s people, to begin this new thing for which God longs:  to know that there is something, someone, some power greater than we are that wills good for us.  

Henri Nouwen once spoke about violence, and what he saw as the root of all violence. I cannot quote him directly, so I am paraphrasing, but he said something like this: “At the root of every violent act is a child screaming out: ‘won’t someone please love me!?” 

That is to say, of course:  “Care for me. Have my best interest at heart. Be on my side!”  There is great healing power in each human knowing they are loved, cared for, valued. That power alone can change things for the better.  

God was saying to this little old couple that they were loved. That they were cared for, and God knew what they needed and what they longed for. And their longing fit with God’s plan for a new people. It was all pretty impossible, of course. It was all very impractical, and surprising and out of the ordinary. It was all beyond their wildest dreams. Sure.  

This time, rather than destroy the world with a flood of water, God chooses to rebuild the world in a flood of hope.

 I even wonder if Abram and Sarai were able to process what it was God was asking of them. God begins with what God wants of them before telling them about their big prize.

In the NRSV. “Walk before me, and be blameless.” 

In other words, I have your back. I’ll cover you.  You aren’t alone. That mattered in desert lands where wild animals and wilder marauders stalked their prey.  It was dangerous to be the last in an entourage, but only from that position at the rear can one can keep an eye on things and protect the others. One doesn’t want an enemy at their back. One wants a friend.  

God wanted Abram and Sarai to be conscious of God’s presence. How different would our lives be if we were always conscious that God was watching our back, willing our good? Aware that God is ever with us, we are never alone, never without comfort, care, and compassion. Funny, isn’t it, how easily we forget something so simple?  How easily we forget that we are in God’s presence all the time. And how easily we forget that is the only place we can be.  

I don’t know about you, but along with the small child crying out to be loved inside of me, there is also a rebellious child that hears this stuff about being in the presence of God as much like a summons to go to the principal’s office. “I don’t wanna.” I fear criticism, judgment; I fear I won’t get to be in charge anymore. I fear I will lose my illusions of control, at any rate. So it isn’t all good news that I can’t flee from God’s presence. That there aren’t places I can hide and do my own thing and have my own way, without God being aware. 

We may laugh at the idea, but I have seen a bumper sticker that read: “Just how much CAN I get away with and still go to heaven?” (The literalists have done a great job on us; it’s so hard to get out of that sin with a little ‘s’ mindset, isn’t it?) When we read of God telling Abram to ‘be blameless’ that seems to reinforce our fears. How can we be blameless? We know we are not going to be perfect! We judge ourselves so harshly and we expect no less of God! 

Remember that when God said to these two to ‘be blameless,’ no torah or law was given; no rules. What God is asking for here does not refer to moral purity, but complete devotion; total loyalty. God is asking them to hand over their whole lives to the Holy One in unqualified devotion. Trust. I’ve got your back. Trust me. Abram and Sarai’s part of the bargain is also a blessing in itself.  

That, I think, is the definition of faith.  It is a consciousness of God’s presence, and participation in that presence as transformative in our lives and in our world.

It is at the same time a goal and a gift, a challenge and a comfort, acceptance and invitation, joy and a lifetime commitment. 

To live always in God’s presence, trusting God, is to live a different kind of life. This is different from what some might call practical atheism, which is alive and well among many who profess to be Christians.  

In spite of worship attendance on Sunday mornings, many of us live our lives as if there is no God, no higher power that wills our good. No one’s in charge but us. We live our lives as if we are alone and adrift in the world.  We struggle to take care of ourselves, try to make sure we have what we need, unable to trust in a higher power.  

This invitation precedes the law given to Moses. There is a vision, a reason for which the law was given. The law is simply the instruction manual to help us more fully ‘live always in God’s presence, and be fully devoted to God.’ To live every moment before God is to be free to stand at any moment before the judgment of God. It is to not be afraid of being called down to the principal’s office. It is thereby the freedom to die. And it is the freedom to live—fully live.  

I began to more fully grasp this concept about only being able to fully live though being free to die, when I read a book (with which some of you may be familiar) Walker Percy’s “Lost in the Cosmos.” In the book, Percy talks about depression, and suicide as a cure for depression.  Depression, he argues, is a reasonable response to the world in which we live.  And suicide, he suggests, should be considered as a cure. He tells a story of two kinds of folks, one who refuses to consider suicide an option, and how they are stuck in this existence, having to suffer through. Their lives are drudgery and without joy. They seek only to save their lives. And in the process, it becomes not worth saving.  

However, he insists, if we recognize that there really is a choice for us, that we can be or not be, then we are not trapped. We have options.  Further, he notes, there is yet another option. What, he wonders, happens to all those things that have been pressing down on us, those burdens that became more than we could bear and from which we were driven to consider non-existence? What happens to those things when we opt out? What would happen to those burdens if we ceased to be—where would the worries go? What would happen?  They cease to have power over us when we die. So, his brilliant solution is to recognize that suicide is a choice, step out from under the burdens, the worries, the woes, but then—choose to live!  

He describes then what he calls the ex-suicide; having a morning cup of coffee, enjoying a sunny day, rubbing a cat’s head and going off to work, because this person has made life a conscious choice: to give, in a sense, one’s life away. Free to die. Not living under the burden of having to save one’s life, but seeing life as a choice, and able to give that life away. Hoarding life is not living life.  We can only live our lives and give our lives fully by trusting in something greater than we are.  

When we hear a theological term like “justifications” being tossed about (and I expect to hear it a lot at the upcoming General Assembly) know that the plain meaning is simply this: trusting God and not our own righteousness (which is to say even our own work for justice.)         

What Abram and Sarai were given is our gift, as well. Our invitation to trust a God who invites us to live conscious of God’s care in our lives, and to be fully devoted to God.

There is direction to this. It is not for our sakes alone. It never is. As we live conscious of the presence of God, we change the systems in which we live. We make them aware of presence of God, the power of love in the world. 

For the disciples to practice the presence meant to stick with Jesus on the way to Jerusalem; an unpleasant task, to say the least. Jesus tells them what awaits in Jerusalem, where all this is heading. He has noted the anxiety of the religious leaders. He has paid attention to their questions, and known when they were setting traps for him. He will not be the first to end up on a cross. The Romans were brilliant at the use of state sanctioned violence to keep the peace, of course.  What a simple form of torture, the cross.  Surely it would serve as a deterrent to anyone so bold as to question the status quo. Someone had to stop those crazy people from stirring up the poor and the riff-raff with ideas of justice. What’s more just than everyone getting what they deserve? 

Jesus saw what was coming. Or, more accurately, where he was going, because he intended to walk into the eye of the storm. The disciples didn’t want to hear it. Peter rebuked him. (That took some nerve. In other gospels, the response is softened somewhat from an actual rebuke.)  Maybe Peter had another plan, one that might spare Jesus’ life.  Maybe Peter thought the authorities would change their minds, and see the wisdom in Jesus’ teachings. Maybe he thought just a little more time and people would want to turn around, want to live differently. Maybe he began to see his own dreams withering with Jesus’ words . . .  

Peter was trusting in things other than God at that moment. That’s the tricky part, isn’t it? Being able to trust in God even when things aren’t going our way. Being able to face whatever difficulties with which we may be dealing and knowing God has not abandoned us, God is still with us; still has our back, knowing this and trusting in God, trusting God in the midst of it all. It’s hard to trust God’s dreams when our own dreams may be withering; to trust that God is still there loving us, and caring for us when our hopes slip through our fingers like so much sand.  The ones that can are the saints, aren’t they? Those whose faith has held firm when life was difficult.  They have an inner light, and inner peace in knowing that whatever else may be going on in their lives, they are living in the presence of God. They are blameless. They got it, and Peter did, too, eventually. Long after this event, long after his denial of Jesus. Eventually, he did discover the joy of consciousness of God’s presence.  

But here, on the way to Jerusalem, Peter doesn’t like the sound of what’s to come and the disciples’ fears give voice to Jesus’ own temptations. Jesus’ rebuke is sharp: Get behind me. Satan! You are thinking on human things rather than divine things. You are thinking too small, too short-sighted. You don’t have the big picture, get behind me. The language here is so different from the gracious invitation to follow Jesus’ issued to Peter early in his discipleship. It is a rebuke that recognizes this is no friend, and therefore not welcome to follow. ‘Get out of here,’ may come closer to the meaning, or ‘Get out of my way.’

Satan, by the way, is  a name from the Hebrew that can mean ‘the other side’ of God.  We could spend many sermons discussing that alone, but for our purposes today, what we need to hear is that this is a test: an opportunity for Jesus to strengthen his resolve. A little spiritual ‘resistance’ training. In other words, even Satan’s appearance is meant as further blessing. (If you hear me telling you there is not an evil opposite of God, a personification of evil, a fellow with horns and a pitchfork – then you do understand where I am coming from on Satan. I believe there is only one God, and that One God is Love.)  

Ched Myers argues that saving or losing one’s life has to do with courtroom solidarity under pressure of threat. To be ashamed of Jesus and renounce him may save one’s skin, but lose one’s life – as it dawns on Peter in the high Priest’s courtyard later when Peter denies Jesus. 

In any event, the topic remains the freedom to die, and trusting God’s judgment above all others. God’s judgment, not the judgments of others, or the world. Not the 'shoulds' and criticisms of anyone else’s attempts to control or form us in their image. Not our own harsh self-criticism. It is God’s judgment that matters. God who created us, God who loves us, God who longs for us to know we are beloved, and meant to be blessing.  It is this Loving God in whose presence we live. And when we are conscious of living in God’s presence, we are more fully present as our true selves in the world. Abram and Sarai receive a name change, for we change when we live more consciously aware of the presence of God in our lives. We are no longer the same people. We are more fully who God longs for us to be. The names and descriptions given us by others no longer matter, for we are named, defined by God alone. 

We can’t cover everything in one sermon, much as I may try. But let’s not overlook something that might otherwise go unnoticed. It almost seems as if Jesus lowered his voice and mumbled something, because the disciples don’t comment on this. They seem to miss something important in Jesus’ prediction.  Here, in all this talk of suffering and death, we find the first mention of resurrection in the gospel. It’s like a wink, a nod, or the beginnings of a smile twitching at the corner of Jesus’ mouth, perhaps even suppressed laughter breaking through all the heavy talk. The presence of God in spite of our practice.  

God says, ‘Walk in my presence and I will sustain you when all seems lost. Walk in my presence and I will provide light in the darkest of hours. Walk in my presence and I will bring hope in the midst of despair. Walk in my presence and I will show you the impossible. Or, at least the ridiculous.’  

To walk in God’s presence is to watch the dry wilderness of our imaginations burst into the hopeful bloom of God’s redemptive plans. Abraham laughs. So does Sarah. Paul mentions everything but the laughter in his letter to the Romans. Paul should have remembered the laughter. It’s the name of  that impossible baby, Isaac. It’s the sound of stardust at its beginning and it is the gentle music of faith. Because we walk in the presence of God, seeking to trust in God at all times, we can take ourselves lightly. We can see the humor in a God who chooses us to live in God’s reign now. Because we take God seriously, we can take ourselves lightly and we can laugh!