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Genesis 18:1-15
The Lord appeared to Abraham by the oaks of Mamre, as he sat at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day. He looked up and saw three men standing near him. When he saw them, he ran from the tent entrance to meet them, and bowed down to the ground. He said, “My lord, if I find favor with you, do not pass by your servant. Let a little water be brought, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree. Let me bring a little bread, that you may refresh yourselves, and after that you may pass on—since you have come to your servant.” So they said, “Do as you have said.” And Abraham hastened into the tent to Sarah, and said, “Make ready quickly three measures of choice flour, knead it, and make cakes.” Abraham ran to the herd, and took a calf, tender and good, and gave it to the servant, who hastened to prepare it. Then he took curds and milk and the calf that he had prepared, and set it before them; and he stood by them under the tree while they ate. They said to him, “Where is your wife Sarah?” And he said, “There, in the tent.” Then one said, “I will surely return to you in due season, and your wife Sarah shall have a son.” And Sarah was listening at the tent entrance behind him. Now Abraham and Sarah were old, advanced in age; it had ceased to be with Sarah after the manner of women. So Sarah laughed to herself, saying, “After I have grown old, and my husband is old, shall I have pleasure?” The Lord said to Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh, and say, ‘Shall I indeed bear a child, now that I am old?’ Is anything too wonderful for the Lord? At the set time I will return to you, in due season, and Sarah shall have a son.” But Sarah denied, saying, “I did not laugh”; for she was afraid. He said, “Oh yes, you did laugh.”
I miss Pride.
Yesterday should have been the Portland Pride parade and festival, but now it’s just another event sacrificed for the sake of public safety. It was the right choice, but I miss it more than I thought I would. It has come to mean more to me than I thought it would. I remember my first gay pride parade in North Carolina. It was more of a march than a parade, for safety was not assumed. I remember the excitement, the nerves, the fear and the question of whether I’d be fired if my boss were to hear where I’d been.
I remember the protestors. I remember their signs. I remember the child holding a sign about God’s hate. I remember wondering what would happen to that child if they didn’t turn out to be straight. The parade got stalled while we stood there, facing those signs, and I remember it was the elders in our group who first began to sing. Jesus loves me, this I know, then We are a gentle, angry people singing for our lives. We were singing for our lives, marching for our lives, claiming our lives had value.
Now I get to proclaim that for others. Now every year I get to walk with my church—my church!—as we pronounce God’s love for all people. But not this year, and I miss it. I miss the smiles, the tears, the cheers when we pass with our sign that says “Our church is sorry for all the hateful things done in the name of God.” I miss the young people—at least one every year—who thank me and hug me and say “I never knew. I never knew there were churches like yours.” I miss the older people who won’t even look our way because they learned long ago not to look to churches for love. I miss the obvious first-timers, like the tall person in a dress and heels who, by the way they tugged at their skirt and glanced furtively around, were making their debut, and their wife, holding their hand, looking scared but determined to support the one she loved. I miss them all. And I worry about the ones who needed this year to hear our message of grace.
It’s been five years since marriage equality has been the law of the land. It was a hard-fought battle and a heart-full win, but the win didn’t finish the work. It’s been five years since we won marriage equality, but only four years since the Pulse Nightclub shooting and only 12 days since two black trans women were killed in Pennsylvania and Ohio. Our work isn’t done, but it has more than begun. Back in North Carolina, I never could have predicted where we’d be today. I was 40 when a young lesbian activist came to speak to our church. She said marriage equality would come, even to North Carolina. I was amazed at her naivete. After all, I had seen the signs. I had marched past the protestors. I had driven past the boys in my neighborhood who threw rocks at my car and yelled slurs at me and shouted at me to go home, which they clearly did not believe should be in THEIR neighborhood. So when this 22-year-old told me marriage equality would come to North Carolina, I laughed and I said, “In whose lifetime?” I never believed it could be mine.
I wonder if that’s how Sarah felt. She had reason to laugh. In chapter 12, when Abram was 75 years old, he received a message from the Lord:
“Go to the land I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and to your offspring I will give this land.”
This is quite a promise because Abram had no offspring, and did I mention he was 75? In chapter 13 God repeated the promise of land and expanded the promise of offspring: your offspring will be as plentiful as the dust of the earth. In chapter 15 God expanded the promise by naming it a covenant, promising descendants as numerous as the stars, which is far better and brighter than dust. Four chapters and 11 years from the original promise, Sarah knew she wasn’t getting any younger and God wasn’t getting any nearer and the miracle wasn’t getting any clearer. So she took over the fulfillment of the promise, and she gave her slave to her husband to produce the promised child. There are so many atrocities involved in this story—from the form of conception to the later banishment of mother and child.
This sermon is too small to tell that whole story—it deserves its own time— so today I will merely name that the story is filled with more than one women’s pain.
In chapter 17, God renewed the covenant but by then Sarah was 90 and Abraham 100, and at what point did they stop saying “Yes, Lord” and “OK, Lord” and “Any time soon, Lord?”
Now comes chapter 18, when Abraham and Sarah get company. These visitors—we think at first they are mere men, travelers, wanderers, strangers in need of care. But then they know things they shouldn’t know. “Where is your wife Sarah?” She’s in the tent…and…how did you know her name? Then came the same promise no mortal could have dreamed, the promise of children so long wished for, so long denied that hope was a withered seed within her heart, within her womb.
It has been said that hope is a mighty fine breakfast, but for supper it’s a terrible meal. For Sarah it was well past supper. She came unraveled and she laughed. It was not a funny laugh. It was not a joyful laugh. It was a cynical, “yeah, right” kind of laugh known by those with hope-weary hearts.
Friday was Juneteenth, a holiday celebrated on June 19th to commemorate the emancipation of enslaved people in the United States. During a digital celebration produced by the United Church of Christ, black preacher Rev. Otis Moss III quoted the song
“We shall overcome . . . some day?
When is some day?”
He repeated the phrase, demanding answer.
“When? When is that some day? When there are no more bodies to kill? Is ‘someday’ a demonic taunt? How many bodies have to be broken, lives lost, mothers weep in anguish? And then some of you say ‘I need to wait until all the facts come out.’ What else do you need to see when you see a human being die before your eyes? When is it someday? Is it when our throats are so weary from crying in anguish that speech can no longer form on our lips? When. When. When. When is someday. When will that day come?”
I don’t have an answer to that question, but I think about Sarah. I think about Sarah and how she had no reason to hope. God’s promises had been too long delayed. Her dreams had been too long denied. So she let out a sad sardonic laugh. And then she went to her husband. A child came from their union, not a virgin birth. This time she didn’t take over God’s work, but she did her part. Even when she had no hope, she gave herself to the process that would bring the miracle.
Life comes when we give ourselves to the process. Dreams come true when we do our part. Someday comes when we keep trying, keep working, keep seeking.
If I told you that one day our nation would be free from the shackles of racism, would you laugh? If I told you that one day trans women could walk our streets safely, would you laugh? If I told you that people would be free to love who they love, to be who they are, without question or comment or discrimination, would you laugh? If I told you that nothing is impossible for God, would you laugh?
It’s okay to laugh, even a sad, sardonic laugh. It’s okay to cry, for all that is and is not true. And then, after the laughter, after the tears, we must give ourselves to the process that brings life. We must do the work to bring about the change.
That laugh of Sarah’s was not her last laugh. God did for Sarah what God had promised, and she who was considered barren brought forth new life. After their child was born, Sarah said, “God has brought laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh with me.” Scholar Walter Brueggemann says “The joyous laughter is the end of sorrow and weeping. Laughter is a biblical way of receiving a newness which cannot be explained.”
I miss Pride. I miss the rainbows and the rowdiness. I miss the laughter that echoes through Deering Oaks Park. I miss pronouncing God’s blessing and grace on those who need to hear it. But I also remember that what we call Gay Pride started with a protest against police brutality, and we never would have made the progress we’ve achieved without the commitment of people, gay and straight, to work for it. Our work is not done, but it is begun. Our work on racism is not done, but it is begun. Let us renew our commitment to strive for liberty and justice for all. Let us renew our commitment until all God’s children are free. Amen.