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

The Cost of Grace

Luke 9:51-62

When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem. And he sent messengers ahead of him. On their way they entered a village of the Samaritans to prepare for his arrival, but they did not receive him because his face was set toward Jerusalem. 

When his disciples James and John saw this, they said, “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?” But he turned and rebuked them. Then they went on to another village.

As they were going along the road, someone said to him, “I will follow you wherever you go.” And Jesus said to him, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” To another he said, “Follow me.” But he said, “Lord, first let me go and bury my father.” And Jesus said to him, “Let the dead bury their own dead, but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” Another said, “I will follow you, Lord, but let me first say farewell to those at my home.” And Jesus said to him, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

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Jesus would have been a terrible pastor. And I am not the first pastor or preacher to say such a thing. Most pastors, yours included, work very hard to make things comfortable. When you come here, things are orderly and neat, (have you met pastor mark?). We do our best to explain what’s going on, where things are, and how to get involved (if you want to). We hope the worship is satisfying, the music gratifying, and the preaching not a snore. We want people to know this is a place where you are cared for.

So we make sure Christian education is appealing and diverse in it’s offerings; there is plenty of opportunity for fellowship and meals together; and we do some service, but not too much. In all, we try to give people what they want, without too many demands — after all, it’s not like we can compete with sports or packed family calendars.

Jesus is the opposite. I imagine if Jesus were a pastor and greeted you at the door, he wouldn’t say, “I’m so glad you’ve joined us,” but more like, “Are you sure you want to do this?” That’s essentially what he says to the would-be disciples in Luke. Jesus is walking toward Jerusalem when someone says, “Wherever you go, I’ll follow!” You can almost hear Jesus say, “You don’t even know what you’re saying. Creatures of earth and sky have homes — not me. Are you ready to be homeless?” We don’t know how the young man responds. But I know how I would — and I’m guessing you do too.

And so it is with the other two would-be disciples. Jesus tells one not to bury his father. What kind of lunatic says that? Especially in a culture where honoring one’s parents was a sacred obligation. Surely Jesus can’t be saying that following him is greater than the traditions of their culture? Surely he isn’t telling us we can’t attend funerals or grieve those we love.

And is it really a big deal that the third person wants to say goodbye? That doesn’t seem like an unreasonable request? I mean of course he would come rushing back to Jesus, right? A quick hug to mom, maybe one more meal, a good night’s rest, and then he’ll be ready. But Jesus says “you’ll only make crooked furrows and that’s no good in the Kingdom of God”.

You see what I mean that Jesus wouldn’t make a good pastor? Here are people throwing themselves at Jesus and his response is “are you sure? Because this is going to cost you.”

It will cost you your comfort; it will cost you the traditions and obligations you hold so dearly,

it will cost you whatever or whoever it was waiting for you back home.

We don’t want to hear that. I don’t want to preach that! It would be easier to stand up and say we are doing so well. Instead of a discipleship at all cost, we much prefer discipleship at little to no cost. We want Jesus, myself included, to sound like a used car salesman, reaffirming that this life of faith can be ours with little to no money down!

We want discipleship on demand — where we hit pause when something else comes up, and resume when time allows. After all isn’t there grace?! And here among all places, isn’t grace offered with no string attached?

But when grace becomes an excuse to avoid commitment — when it asks nothing of us — it turns into what Bonhoeffer called “cheap grace.

“Cheap grace is that grace which we bestow on ourselves. Cheap grace is preaching forgiveness without repentance; it is baptism without the disciple of community;

it is the Lord’s Supper without the confession of sin; it is absolution with out personal confession.

Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without the living, incarnate Jesus Christ”.

Rather what Jesus offers to the would-be disciples and to us is a costly grace. It is costly because it will cost us comfort — but it is grace, because we follow Jesus.

It is costly because it will upend our lives — but it is grace, because it offers life to the full, here and now.

It is costly because we will lose relationships — but it is grace, because it leads us into deeper communion with others and with God

I want to be clear. Discipleship is not how much one goes to church. I don’t think Jesus is saying discipleship means you must be homeless, or that you can’t grieve a loved one, or doubt what you’re doing. But I also don’t want to chalk this up to hyperbole and say, “Nice try — at least there’s grace.” Grace isn’t an excuse; it’s a catalyst. Discipleship will cost us.

So what is the cost — for you, in your life, right now? And what might it cost us, together, as a community of faith?

What comfort might this costly grace afflict?

What obligations are you asked to let go of?

What relationships need reordered?

In Winston-Salem, I saw costly grace embodied. The Dwelling is a church made up of — and for — people who live on the margins. Folks who are homeless or have been. People wrestling with addiction. Just out of incarceration. Some from nearby low-income housing.

A few who looked like you and me.

When we got to the dwelling for worship, their sanctuary looked nothing like ours. Think more living room, less cathedral. It was packed with people who walked in from the street, bags and dogs in tow. People would yell, sometimes at no one, sometimes at someone, sometimes playful, sometimes not.

We ate breakfast together. But the smell of the egg casserole was not enough to mask the scent of sweat and smoke that filled the space. Worship began once seconds were finished, around 11ish, but no one sets their watch by it. And if you think our second service is loud…

People held conversations, left, came back in, moved about at their leisure. But they also clapped and danced, and yell affirmations during the sermon and prayers. Did I mention it too is an ELCA church?

After worship, they gathered for another meal, waiting in a long line on the blacktop as the North Carolina sun beat down. With early 2000s pop blasting from a speaker, the servers danced with abandon as they dished up a thoroughly southern lunch for over 200 people.

And that’s what every Sunday is like. [return to screen].

It is uncomfortable, especially for those of us who expect church to look, feel, smell, and sound more like this. It breaks many traditions of worship, programming, and education, especially for a Lutheran congregation.

And it has cost them relationships. People won’t worship there because they think it could be unsafe, or they can’t tolerate the smell, or there’s no Sunday School.

Yet as I sat in worship — clearly the minority in all sorts of ways — I saw costly grace. It was messy and beautiful, hard and joy-filled. But that’s discipleship.

And at our best, I believe we embrace costly grace in faithful ways for our context.

It sounds like raising hard questions and concerns about the dangers of Christian Nationalism.

It looks like showing up at Pride with a booth and a message: that God’s love is for all — especially those who’ve been told it’s not. It means addressing the history and ongoing injustice caused by racism. It feels like giving a significant portion of our money away each and every year to people and places that need it.

These things make us uncomfortable. They reorder our obligations. They challenge our traditions. And yes — they have cost us relationships. But isn’t that what Jesus said discipleship would look like?

Discipleship is costly, Jesus is very honest about that. But he asks nothing of us that he hasn’t already done for us.

Maybe that’s why he would have been a terrible pastor — but the perfect Savior. And thank God for that. Amen.