The Primeval Mythology of Genesis - Creation

John 19:38-42

After these things, Joseph of Arimathea, a follower of Jesus, though a secret one because of his fear of the Jews, came to Pilate and asked if he could take away the body of Jesus. Pilate gave him permission; so he came to remove his body. Nicodemus, who at first had come to Jesus by night also came, bringing with him a mixture of myrrh and aloes weighing about one hundred pounds. They took the body, wrapping it in the spices and linens, according to the Jewish burial customs. Now, there was a garden in the place where Jesus had been crucified and in the garden there was a new tomb in which no one had ever been [buried.] So, because it was the Jewish Day of Preparation, and because the tomb was nearby, they laid the body of Jesus there.

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“The Primeval Mythology of Genesis: Creation”

I’ve already heard some curiosity – maybe mixed with some cynical suspicion – about the title of this new sermon series: “The Primeval Mythology of Genesis.” Curiosity and suspicion aren’t terrible things and I think it’s the word “mythology” that stirs the pot for some people, which was kind of our goal. Part of the point with this next round of sermons is to remind ourselves and each other that we’re called to read the Bible LITERATELY, not LITERALLY, and to see that its message and good news – its grace, hope, and promise – go deeper and wider when we do.

So first, things, first … which is what “primeval” means, sort of … first things; of the earliest ages; the beginning of the beginning, you might say. The first eleven chapters of the Bible’s first book are where we will spend our time the next few weeks. The good stuff before the good stuff. The stage-setting. The foundation. The genesis, is where we begin.

And the word “mythology” rightly ruffles feathers if we are inclined to equate the foundational narrative of our faith story with the fables, fairy tales, and fictional “myths” of, say, the Greek gods (Zeus, Poseidon, Aphrodite, and the like); or Aesop’s fables; or the tall tales of the wonderful world of Walt Disney. But that’s not what we’re up to.

“Myth” and “mythology” can mean something more, something deeper from a theological perspective, which is what we plan to wrestle with. I would contend that, when we limit stories like creation, where we are beginning this morning, to all and only what we can glean from it LITERALLY, that that’s precisely how and when we reduce it to something like a mere fable, a fairy tale, a fictional “myth,” rather than when we wonder about the holy, sacred, profound Truths that this story – and the others like it in Scripture – hold for our life and faith in this world.

And where better to start than at the very beginning – “it’s a very good place to start” – in the beginning, with the fact that, if we’re honest, the two very different versions of creation that we just heard – from Chapters 1 and 2 of the same book – make it really hard to take either of them LITERALLY?

I mean, those are two very different versions of the same story, right? (Many Bibles, like the ones we read from each Sunday, say it plainly. Chapter 2 is “another story of creation.”) The story in Chapter 1 tells of the day-by-day, very long work-week of the Almighty, who creates first this, and then that, with a break and no small measure of satisfaction between each.

“…and God saw that it was good…” “…and God saw that it was good…” “…and God saw that it was good…”

“…and there was evening and there was morning, the first day…” “…and there was evening and there was morning, the third day…” “…and there was evening and there was morning, the fifth day…”

But Chapter 2 goes down altogether differently. In that version of creation, God – like some sort of holy potter, or divine craftsman, or sacred sculptor – makes a man from the dust, then plants a garden and puts him to work, then decides he could use a companion and some help, so then creates all the rest, and a woman, to boot.

In version #2, we don’t know which came first or next, on which day. And none of that matters.

What matters is that God, something Divine, did something divine – created the heavens, the earth, and all that is in them. What matters is that it was and is good. What matters is that we are part of that goodness – you and I – and all people – created good, by God; and created for good, for God’s sake.

What matters, if you ask me, is that we stop reducing the Bible to some sort of prehistoric science book – the authors of which never could have known a thing about bunker-busting missiles or atomic bombs; about Gaza or the West Bank, as we know of them today; about electric cars, school shootings, cancer, chemo-therapy, Medicaid or social media. And that’s okay. These stories have something to say to all of that – and to all of us – nonetheless.

Because what the creation stories tells us – among so many other things – is that we are made in the image of the divine, even though we do so much to make that hard to believe. And we are made in the image of the divine, not just because we have heads, shoulders, knees, or toes…

…but we are made in the image of the Divine because we are made for community, like God; with the power to create and care about and have compassion, like God; that we have the capacity to do justice, like God; make sacrifices, like God; be generous, like God; forgive, like God; and love one another, like God.

Oh, and this is important: the stories of creation make it very clear that none of us IS God and that we shouldn’t try to be – which Pastor Cogan will get to next week, I believe.

Instead, for now, let’s let the stories of creation inspire within us what, I believe they were meant to inspire and to teach and to proclaim all along: a sense of reverence and awe about what God can do; a posture of humility and gratitude for our part in the grand scheme of things; and a response from each of us – and all of us together – that is generous, careful, and full of service that acknowledges our connection to all people and to the grand scheme of things.

Because today’s good news includes the notion that we are created “just a little lower than the angels” – as the Psalmist puts it – and that God calls us to live differently because of that Truth. God invites us to tend to and care for what belongs to God – the earth and all that is in it. God calls us to replenish what we use up – from the earth and from each other, too; to give more than we take, save, and keep for ourselves.

So, what if these primeval creation stories are nothing more – and certainly nothing less – than prehistoric best efforts at describing something that cannot be described; that is too big for words; that are meant to love us and leave us in awe and wonder for what God has done for us – and hopes to do through us – for the sake of the world where we live?

What if these primeval creation stories are nothing more – and certainly nothing less – than poetic prose from a prehistoric Mary Oliver, who could marvel at creation as well as anyone, as far as I’m concerned? Her poem Wild Geese, goes like this:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

What if the point of the creation stories is simply, and profoundly, to announce your place – and mine – in the family of things?

And what if these primeval creation stories are nothing more – and certainly nothing less – than like clever song lyrics from a pre-historic John Prine, encouraging you, with a wink and smile to…

“Blow up your TV, throw away your paper
Go to the country, build you a home
Plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches
Try and find Jesus on your own.”

What if these primeval creation stories are nothing more – and certainly nothing less – than prehistoric pieces of art – trying to capture, with words, something like Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”:

or Monet’s “Water Lilies”:

or even Ansel Adams who, like the story tellers of Genesis, certainly had a thing for trees.

But, speaking of John Prine, I hope the Gospel reading wasn’t too on the nose this morning. But I wanted to connect all of this to Jesus, of course. Because it is as poetic and powerful to me that our faith story begins and ends, in a garden, sometimes.

There aren’t enough of even the most beautiful words, songs, poems, or prose to adequately convey the power of God’s love in creation – or by way of the Word made flesh, in Jesus. And I think the two different versions of creation that we find in Genesis aren’t in competition. They’re just evidence and acknowledgment of that fact – of how grand and glorious and full of grace this God is that we worship.

So I think it’s a beautiful thing that both versions of creation’s origin story – and the consummation of God’s resurrection in Jesus … God’s defeat of death … Christ’s victory over Sin for our sake … I think it’s beautiful that all of that, too, takes place in a garden – where light shines in the darkness; where the goodness of God bears fruit for the sake of the world; where sin never gets the last word; where we are all made and made new in God’s image; and where hope rules, in spite of the chaos, because of the grace, mercy, and love of the God we know in Jesus.

Amen

Not So Golden Silence

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John 14:8-7

Philip said to him, “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.” Jesus said to him, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, ‘Show us the Father’? Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? The words that I say to you I do not speak on my own, but the Father who dwells in me does his works.

Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father is in me, but if you do not, then believe because of the works themselves. Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father.

I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it. “If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him because he abides with you, and he will be in you.

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Speech is silver. Silence is golden. That’s the full proverb, not just the part we usually hear. It implies it’s better to listen than to speak, and often I agree. But what about when those three little dots appear on your phone screen—and then vanish? How do we feel then? When you call someone and it goes straight to voicemail? When an email notification reminds you it’s been seven days with no reply? You submit a job application and never hear back.

They promised to call, but the phone stays silent. The calendar pages keep flipping, and you lose track of how many months it’s been since you last heard from your son or daughter, mother or father, family member, or once-close friend. Silence then isn’t golden. When communication stops, the silence isn’t just deafening; it’s devastating. Because we often take silence—an unreturned call, a job application ignored, a text unread—as judgment.

Instead of considering someone might be busy, distracted, or forgot their vacation responder, we assume they changed their mind about us or we offended them. Silence is rarely taken at face value. We struggle with silence because, as humans, we’re wired for communication. It’s how we connect and form bonds. When that connection is cut off, when we are ghosted, (or when we do the ghosting you know who you are) it causes confusion, lack of closure, even discontent. And we don’t function as we should.

Take, for instance, the silent treatment. We’ve all done it. We’ve all been on the receiving end of it. That is silence as punishment. Kipling Williams, emeritus professor of psychological sciences at Purdue University, has studied its effects for over 30 years. The silent treatment is a common tactic in all kinds of relationships: friendships, marriages, family bonds, coworkers—you name it.

Why do we do it? Some say it feels satisfying—like gaining control or making a point.

But psychologists warn it can cause lasting harm. One leading psychiatrist says that for those shut out, intentional silence triggers “anxiety, fear, and feelings of abandonment,”. It often leads to self-doubt, self-blame, and self-criticism.

Worse than that, silence hurts—literally. Purdue’s Dr. Williams found being ignored activates the same brain areas as physical pain. “It’s not just metaphorically painful,” he said, “the brain detects it as pain.” Silence can indeed be violence—or worse, deadly.

I wonder if the disciples felt like they were getting the silent treatment from Jesus. At the end of Luke’s Gospel, the last thing Jesus said to his disciples was, “Stay in the city until you have received power from on high.” In the first chapter of Acts, which continues Luke’s story, Jesus tells them just before his ascension, “You will be baptized with the Holy Spirit not many days from now.” So in Jerusalem, they went back and forth from the temple to where they were staying, praying continually and waiting for the Holy Spirit to come—whatever that would look like.

The first day passed—no big deal.

Day two, more prayers—still nothing.

By day three, their hopes were up—a lot can happen in three days, they told themselves. But again, nothing.

I wonder if the disciples, as they waited for this Holy Ghost, felt like they might have been ghosted? Hours became days, days became a week—and still no sign of the Holy Spirit.

Surely you know how this feels. Is there anyone who hasn’t waited for God to reply to their prayers? To make good on a promise you feel God has made to you, like not forsaking you, or comforting you, healing you, or simply helping you? Anything would be nice—even a no! But instead, you get silence. And just like with people, we take that silence to mean we’ve done something wrong and God is mad, or God doesn’t care, or there is no God at all.

I wonder if on the ninth night after Jesus ascended and promised to send the Holy Spirit, but had yet done nothing, those same thoughts crept into the farthest reaches of the disciples’ minds. But undoubtedly, some of you are thinking: Ten days? I’ve been waiting ten years, twenty years, or more to hear from God—and I’m still waiting today! Talk about the silent treatment—that hurts.

But on the morning of that tenth day, as the disciples were all sitting together in one place— the waiting gave way to a wind. Suddenly a sound like a rushing, gusting wind filled the house. Then tongues, cut in half down the middle, maybe engulfed in flame but not burning—like the bush from Moses—dropped from heaven and landed on each of them. Somehow, the tongues were the bearers of the Holy Spirit that then filled the disciples and allowed them to speak in other languages.

And you know the rest of the story from there. Jews from all around the world understood the disciples. Peter gave a sermon. Nearly 3,000 were baptized that very day.

I think Pentecost has a lot to teach us about the silence we face in this life—both from God and from others.

First, your answer or response from God might—perhaps is even likely—to come in ways you never could have imagined. I’m sure divided tongues of fire weren’t on any of the disciples’ bingo cards for how Jesus would make good on his promise to give the Holy Spirit.

I can’t imagine how frustrating and painful it is—or has been—for those of you who feel like God has altogether forgotten your prayers, your concerns, or simply you. But Pentecost gives us hope—maybe gives you hope—that whatever it is you’re waiting for will come, just in a way you never anticipated. William Cowper, the 18th-century poet, has it right: God moves in a mysterious way.

Second, being in and among a community helps. It helps with discernment and hope. Pentecost wasn’t an individual experience, but a communal one. Everyone had been praying together. Everyone had been waiting together. God moves in a mysterious way, yes; but God also often works in the midst of community. That’s why we, as a community, gather for worship, prayer, fellowship, and more—to help one another in discernment, to offer hope when someone has all but run out, to be the person God is at work through for the other. And if you don’t have that kind of community, I hope Cross of Grace can be that place, that people for you, with you.

Lastly, if the Holy Spirit was able to give words and understanding to people from all over the world on that Pentecost, surely the Holy Spirit can do the same in this time and place. How many of us are experiencing silence with someone we love because we don’t know what to say?

Maybe it’s about politics, or a fight you got into, or a mistake that was made, and you haven’t approached them because you don’t think you have the right words, or you don’t know what to say, or they won’t understand no matter what.

I think that is a dominant feeling for nearly everyone in our culture today. But one thing research tells us is that the silent treatment doesn’t work—and one thing our faith tells us is that the Holy Spirit can do the impossible, like people from Galilee speaking languages from all across the world.

We need a Pentecost today. We need the Holy Spirit to give us words that transcend differences, that repair what has been broken, that grow a community. At a time when we are so dangerously and direly divided, when there is so much pain and misunderstanding, we need the ability to not only speak, but perhaps even more so the ability to understand one another.

Henri Nouwen says, “One of the main tasks of theology [and I would also say of the church] is to find words that do not divide but unite, that do not create conflict but unity, that do not hurt but heal.”

In the days ahead, Reach out to someone with whom you are experiencing silence.

Send a text, make a call, and simply say, ‘I’m thinking of you.’ Let the Spirit move through your words and actions.

In your prayers, lament and be honest with yourself and with God about the silence and pain you’ve experienced from God. And then ask God to work, move, do something! The Psalms, the prophets, even Jesus himself do all of these things, so you’ll be in good company.

Look for moments to listen deeply this week—to a friend, a family member, or someone you normally might not hear. Maybe that's at our Christian Nationalism class or a family gathering or even a different news channel than you normally listen to.

Pentecost is about listening/understanding as much as speaking. These small steps are ways we can practice living in the Spirit’s power now because, we don’t need any more silence, no matter how golden, nor the pain that comes with it.

We need a Pentecost, to break the silence and build community. Come Holy Ghost.

Amen.