Genesis 12: 1–4
John 3: 1–17
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Lord, may we hear your voice in the words spoken in your Name. Amen.
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We are on the road again, the Lenten road that leads to three crosses
on a hill in Jerusalem – yet, paradoxically to Resurrection and
new life. “How can these things be?” we
wonder. “How can this road lead to death and to
life – both at the same time? Does anyone have some
directions?” Someone does have some directions. In
fact, a whole series of someones have travelled this road before us,
and this morning they are lending us their notes, their travelogues,
to show us that we are, indeed, on the right road. So, we are not
travelling alone, without guidance.
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The first person we meet on this ancient road is Abram, accompanied by
his wife Sarai and his nephew Lot. Together with his father and
two brothers and their families, they have just come from Ur of the
Chaldees to Haran. When they started they had intended to
continue their journey from Haran down to Canaan land. But now,
after the death of Terah and one of Abram’s brothers, everyone
is confused. Should they continue their journey down to Canaan
or to stay right here in Haran?
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Do you know what that name Haran means? It means
“crossroads.” And that’s where Abram and Sarai
find themselves – at a crossroads, uncertain where to go
next. The writers of Genesis don’t tell us, but I think at
that point Abram must have uttered a prayer, a fervent prayer, under
his breath. For it’s at that point that God speaks to Abram,
resolving his dilemma.
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“Go,” God tells Abram. “Leave your
country. Leave your father’s family. Leave everything
that’s familiar and go to a land I will show you. There I
will bless you. And there you will become a blessing, a blessing
to all the families of the earth.”
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I imagine many of us can relate to Abram’s feeling as he heard
those words. Maybe you too once left a place that had become
home – and travelled to a new place, where nothing yet felt
familiar, nothing yet felt safe. I know I have. In the summer
of 1976, my husband and I packed up our two children — plus a few
suitcases of clothes — and moved from Guilford, Connecticut to
Austin, Texas. This wasn’t in response to a call from
God. It was in response to a job offer – with tenure –
for my husband. And that was a good thing. But beyond that,
nothing felt good at all.
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Home, for us, meant Connecticut. That’s where Walt’s
extended family lived and where we had lived, pretty much for the past
14 years. That’s where we had both gone to college, where
our children had been born, where we had bought and remodeled our first
house. It meant snow all winter and sailing or swimming on Long
Island Sound all summer. But that wasn’t where we were
going. We were going to Texas. And when I thought about
Texas all I could think was how flat . . .
how hot and dry it would be. Brown and tan instead of
green. Country music instead of chamber ensembles. Big
Cadillacs instead of small European imports. And probably lots of
barbecue. None of these things were bad, in and of themselves,
but they weren’t what I was used to either. Somehow the
ground had shifted under my feet. So, to say I felt apprehensive
is to put it mildly.
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Now I wish I could tell you that at that point I prayed. But
that’s not actually what I did. What I did was
think, “Well, at least, God will be the same there.” And
each time that thought crossed my mind, a wave of peace washed over
me. In fact, whenever I allowed that thought to come to
mind – that God, at least, would be the same, even in
far–off Texas — that same sense of peace came over me and
calmed me down. And I was awed by that – by the thought that
God was somehow with us on the road . . .
and would be waiting there for us when we arrived.
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And in the end, of course, who we travelled with, who we
depended on made all the difference. The thing that mattered
wasn’t what Texas was like . . .
but who would be there — with us as we
arrived. What mattered wasn’t all I had known before, all
that had shaped me . . . but who, by
God’s grace, I could become. God with us, you see,
made all the difference.
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Is that what Abram felt too, as he heard God tell him to set out on a
journey whose destination was known only by God? I have no
way of knowing. But I do believe that something of God’s
Presence accompanied God’s words. And, with that assurance
of God walking with them, Abram and Sarai began walking down the road.
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Now Abram doesn’t have impressive credentials when we first meet
him. He’s simply the second son of Terah, a guy from Ur
of the Chaldees, wherever that is. And he’s the husband
of Sarai — whom we are told is barren. So, he doesn’t
have a whole lot to recommend him. Maybe that’s why he is
willing to risk it all and entertain God’s invitation to an
entirely new future.
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Nicodemus, on the other hand, is a big deal. He’s a big
deal all over Jerusalem. We are told he’s a Pharisee and
a prominent one at that, a member of the ruling Sanhedrin. So
he has social standing and the kind of money that goes along with that
standing. Not only that — he’s an expert in the Law
of Moses, someone others go to for answers. No wonder this
big–deal lawyer comes to Jesus under cover of darkness! He
has a reputation to protect! He can hardly risk being seen
with this back country rabbi.
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And yet, something has made Nicodemus risk this visit. Something
tells him he still lacks one thing. So he has come, wanting to
add that one thing to his resume.
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So, Jesus begins to explain that faith in God is not about adding one
more thing to our sense of ourselves, our sense of our own
accomplishments and abilities. Rather, faith is a matter of
letting go of all that mess – and beginning all over
again. It’s a matter of appearing before God with nothing
in our hands — but our vulnerability, our dependence, our
need – and maybe our failures as well.
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And that, in fact, is why we are on this road in Lent, why the Church
has held on to the whole idea of Lent. For you and I know we
haven’t yet arrived. Most of us, like Nicodemus, figure we
need one last thing. So every year, as Lent begins, we make
resolutions – to get rid of that one bad habit that still
troubles our conscience – and achieve our goal. And I
don’=’t know about you, but every year I fail. So every
year all I have to give to the Lord is my confession that I still
need him. I still need his mercy, his grace, his forgiveness.
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And every year that confession, that admission of my failure keeps me
on the road – coming ever closer to the Cross – where all
I need has already been supplied.
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I bid you a holy Lent.
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Amen.
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