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Getting the Last Laugh: The Making of the
Covenant Kid
A sermon by Dr. Scott Spencer
First Baptist Church, Richmond, Virginia
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Genesis 17:1-4,
15-19; 18:9-15; 21:1-7
In Umberto Eco’s delightful novel, The Name
of the Rose, a group of monks in a medieval monastery superintend a valuable
library of ancient books. One would expect this to be a very quiet and tranquil
setting—but a rash of bizarre deaths that seem more than accidental suddenly
besieges the community.
As it happens, several monks had
discovered a supposedly lost and definitely forbidden volume of Aristotle’s
treatise on laughter and comedy. And while studying this wicked
work, the curious monks contracted a deadly poison on their fingertips—which
entered their systems when they moistened their fingers with their tongues to
turn the pages.
Serves them right for reading
such vile literature! The old, wily Jorge who rigged this death trap makes this
judgment:
Laughter is weakness, corruption, the foolishness
of our flesh. It is the peasant’s entertainment, the drunkard’s license—and
most insidious of all—it dulls of our fear of punishment which is the only thing
that keeps us in line.
I hope it’s more than “fear of punishment” that
sustains our faith. I hope we find more than a little joy in our salvation. I
hope we have enough humility to poke fun at our foibles—not to dismiss them or
“laugh them off”—but to open ourselves to God’s hilariously lavish grace and not
beat ourselves up as flawed creatures.
But I worry. Although most of us
would not put it as sharply as Jorge, we may still wonder about the propriety of
“funny business” in religion, of laughter as a sign of spiritual health, of
humor as a therapeutic tool in pastoral care. Religion and faith are serious
matters. Yes, but can’t we be both serious and humorous, even at the
same time?
We’re not sure. I’m not sure. I can’t seem to
preach without using some humor. It doesn’t matter what kind of church I’m in.
But it’s risky. Sometimes it falls flat—partly because we have different senses
of humor; partly because I’m not that funny—but also, I think, it has a lot to
do with the nature of worship. The balance between contemplative prayer and
joyful praise; between solemn reverence and happy fellowship is a delicate one.
Maybe Jesus can help us here. Did he laugh and
find things funny? I think so, though we don’t have a short and sweet “Jesus
laughed” verse to go along with “Jesus wept.” Certainly Jesus was serious
minded—he wasn’t playing games—but still, for all his conflicts with evil forces
and hostile authorities, he talked a lot about joy, attended dinner parties, and
often painted humorous situations to illustrate a spiritual lesson: images of a
gangly, knobby-kneed, lumpy camel trying to squeeze through the eye of a needle
or of a feisty widow giving a black eye to a callous judge are pretty funny.
Moreover, it’s seems to me Jesus
had to have some sense of humor to put up with his oft-bungling disciples.
Sometimes in the Gospels, we get the feel we’re reading a “Twelve Stooges”
script.
So I infer that Jesus knew how to laugh and
have a good time. But we don’t have a lot of direct, explicit Gospel
material about laughter and humor. The book of Genesis, however, gives us more
to work with—particularly in the stories of Jesus’ distant ancestors, Abraham
and Sarah, as they deal with a birth announcement that proves to be quite a
laughing matter.
They had produced no children and really didn’t
expect any at this stage of their lives. Abraham was a year shy of the century
mark, and his wife Sarah—though a spry, young ninety, had pretty much given up
on child-bearing and knitting little booties.
But God the Giver of all life
said—“I’m making a special covenant with you and your descendants. I will be
your God and you will be my people—my blessed people, my bountiful people. And
it’s going to start with your son, Abraham and Sarah—your natural son whom you
will bear in your old age. No kidding—it’s going to happen.”
When Abraham firsts hears this
wondrous promise at the beginning of Genesis 17, he “falls on his face”
overwhelmed with God’s grace and power. This prostrate posture is a typical
reverential response before the Holy, Almighty God. Even in the heavenly realm,
the book of Revelation depicts elders and angels and other celestial creatures
falling on their faces in rapt worship before the throne of God.
So Abraham’s reaction is
altogether appropriate. But a few verses later, when God repeats the covenant
promise (“I mean it, I’m really not kidding”)—Abraham falls on his face again—but
with a very different attitude.
He now falls on his face overcome
with laughter—but it’s laughter tinged with mockery and incredulity.
While Abraham is “rolling in the aisles,” so to speak, he “says to himself”
(don’t really want God to hear this)—“Can a child be born to man who is a
hundred years old? Can Sarah, who is ninety years old, bear a child?”
C’mon God, really now. You’ve
got to be kidding about this covenant kid. That’s a good one, Lord. Wait until
I tell Sarah—or maybe not: she’s a little touchy about this whole “barrenness”
subject. But pretty funny Lord—quite ridiculous actually.
I spoke earlier about humor being
risky. Well, if God knew what’s behind Abraham’s laughter here, what would God
think? Would God be amused? In fact—God does know! No big surprise
there—it’s hard to hide stuff from God. And God is not terribly amused by
Abraham’s attitude—but he’s not angry either.
God matter-of-factly sticks to the plan: “Your
wife Sarah shall bear you a son—and [an extra item] I even have a name already
picked out. You’ll call him Isaac” (more on the meaning of that name later, but
it turns out God does have a sense of humor).
Well, when Abraham’s not laughing at God’s
plan, he’s trying to help God out (how nice): “Lord, I’ll tell you what: if
you’re so intent on this covenant deal with me and my descendants, let’s just go
with Ishmael, the son “we” had through a surrogate mother, Hagar.” Abraham does
say this directly to God.
But God doesn’t need a new deal, thank you very
much. “One more time, Abraham—Sarah is going to bear you a son—this time
next year in fact [God even has the due date worked out]. Now I’ll bless
Ishmael, too, but, mark my word—laugh and scheme all you want to—Isaac is
going to be the covenant kid.”
And so God handles Abraham’s laughter. But
what about Sarah? She has a rather vital role to play in all this, and
she too can’t help laughing about it.
Here’s the scene in the next chapter: Abraham
is sitting on his tent porch during the heat of the day when he notices three
special visitors who’ve appeared under a big oak tree. The precise identity of
these three “men” is not clear—but they somehow represent the personal presence
of God.
Abraham gets excited. He knows divine
messengers have popped by for a visit, and he wants to be a good host. So he
dashes into the tent and asks Sarah to whip up some of her best cakes and then
charges his servant to prepare some choice veal, “tender and good,” and he takes
all this, along with some curds and milk, out to the “men” resting under the
tree. A spread fit for a king—for God actually.
The Lord then strikes up some conversation with
Abraham: “Where is your wife Sarah?” Abraham had not bothered to invite her to
this little picnic. But the Lord hasn’t forgotten her. “Where is she,
Abraham?”
Oh, she’s back in the tent. No need to worry
about her. But God has a word for Abraham that has great significance for
Sarah: “I will surely return to you in due season, and your wife Sarah
shall have a son.” God just won’t let that go.
This time Sarah gets wind of this preposterous
promise. Abraham may not have invited her to the picnic, but she’s determined
to know what’s going on. She stands as close as she can to the tent entrance,
ear pressed up against the canvass, quietly eavesdropping.
But when she hears this announcement that she’s
going to bear Abraham’s son, she can’t control herself. She can’t help but
laugh. What?—I’m going to finally have a child with that old man. Give me
a break. That’s ridiculous.
The text says that Sarah “laughed
to herself”—that is, she tried to hold it in. But have you ever tried to
hold in a laugh? It’s almost impossible. Usually some giddy, spitty sound
comes spurting out.
In any case, the Lord knows she’s there, knows
she laughed, and responds to Abraham—but knowing Sarah’s still listening—“Why
did Sarah laugh? Is anything too wonderful for the Lord? At the set time I
will return to you, and Sarah shall have a son.” God is nothing if not
persistent.
One last humorous note. Knowing she’s been
found out, Sarah blurts out—“No, no—I didn’t laugh (just clearing my throat).”
Presumably she’s still inside the tent when she says this—a bit more loudly than
she intended perhaps. And then the Lord suddenly shouts back at her from under
the tree—“Oh yes, you did laugh!”
The curtain drops right there on the scene,
leaving us to imagine what Sarah’s startled response must have been.
A comic scene, to be sure—but with a tragic
undertone.
We must not underestimate the
shame and stigma of childlessness in the biblical world—especially for women.
The physical pain of childbirth was nothing in comparison with the social and
psychological pain of not having children—of being barren, as it
was called—awful term.
Abraham had another option. At Sarah’s behest,
he produced an heir—Ishmael—by Sarah’s servant-girl, Hagar (we mentioned this
earlier). This was certainly not Sarah’s or Abraham’s—or the Lord’s—first
choice, but it did bring Abraham some comfort.
But it didn’t help Sarah much. Hagar flaunted
her pregnant belly at Sarah, making fun of her barrenness. Then, sadly, Sarah
wanted nothing to do with her or the baby. A tough situation all around. Being
unable to bear her own child was unbearable in every sense of the word.
And yet—she still laughs about it. With a
touch of mockery? Sure—“Bearing a son at my age. That’s ludicrous.” But it’s
laughter all the same, laughter about her whole, long “barren” life. And I
think it’s remarkable that she reacts this way rather than some other ways I can
easily imagine.
Promising to return next year
when I bear a son? Yeah, right! Raising my hopes again (she’d probably had a
few “false alarms” along the way) just to see them crash to the ground! How
dare this visitor—I don’t care if he is divine.
That would have been an
understandable response, but it’s not what we have here. Sarah does not react
as a bitter, old woman snarling about her plight, making herself and everyone
around her miserable.
Sure she’s disappointed. Of course she’s
skeptical about bearing a son—who wouldn’t be? But she’s learned to cope, to
take it in stride—even laugh about it! Laughing to keep from crying? No
doubt—but laughing all the same.
In my book it takes real grace to come to terms
with life’s tragedies and keep your sense of humor. I’m not talking about lying
down and giving up if there’s something we can do to address our problems. But
in those inevitable situations where there’s not much we can do—we can still
laugh a little—find that humorous edge to an otherwise tragic story—as Sarah
seems to have done.
And who knows? It’s never too late for a
wonderful God to do something wonderful and really give us—and God—something to
laugh about. I have little patience with cheap fairy tale endings—because real
life rarely works out that way. But chilling horror stories hardly reflect the
full scope of reality either.
There’s a lot of light, a lot of grace, a lot
of joy God works in the midst of a dark, depressing, gloomy world. And God has
a way of getting the last laugh—as he does with Abraham and Sarah.
Sure enough, at the appointed time, Sarah gives
birth to a child—a son, her and Abraham’s son, the covenant kid. So what
do you know? God makes good on an “absurd” birth promise after all.
The least Abraham and Sarah can
do in return is to call the kid what God decided. You shall name him “Isaac,”
remember. “Isaac” it is Lord, which means—here’s the piece-de-resistance—“Laughter.”
“Isaac” means “laughter.”
God really does get the last
laugh. Every time Abraham and Sarah call their son—“Laughter, come in for
dinner. Stop that, Laughter. Come on, Laughter, give Mommy and Daddy a
hug”—every time they’ll be reminded that they laughed at God’s promise
which they thought couldn’t possibly be realized.
They’ll be reminded of their past
disappointment, distress, disbelief. But that won’t be their dominant mood.
Every time they call “Laughter,” they’ll have new reason to laugh—not a
nervous laughter this time laced with regret and doubt, but a full-throated,
whole-hearted, joyous laughter over God’s gracious provision of a child who
would carry on the covenant line.
And such exuberant laughter is
contagious. Sarah now exclaims: “God has brought laughter [Isaac] for me; and
everyone who hears will laugh with me.” It’s not nearly as much fun if you
laugh by yourself or “to yourself,” as Abraham and Sarah had previously done.
Laughter is one of the greatest
gifts God shares with us and we share with one another. Laughter works best as
a communal experience. Your laughter picks me up and keeps me going, and
hopefully mine can do the same for you.
Norman Cousins, who has written
extensively on the therapeutic value of laughter—it really is the best
medicine—cites this lovely passage from Dostoevski’s The Adolescent,
offering advice to young ladies on judging a prospective husband:
Ladies—If you wish to glimpse
inside a human soul and get to know a man, don’t bother analyzing his ways of
being silent, of talking, of weeping, or seeing how much he is moved by noble
ideas. You’ll get better results if you just watch him laugh.
If he laughs well, he’s a good man . . . All I can claim to know is that
laughter is the most reliable gauge of human nature.
If that’s so, then Sarah and
Abraham were pretty reliable—and remarkable—human beings. How about you and me
this morning?
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