Old Testament: Genesis 12:1-4a
My journey to ordained ministry was one made up of many years, many steps, and many voices.
The voice of a friend who nearly 30 years ago found out he’d been accepted into seminary and yet who, when I congratulated him, asked when I was going. The voices of parish and diocesan committees which guided me through deep conversations about the meaning of what I sensed and felt. The voices of those calling me to say I’d been approved for advancement to each subsequent step in the ordination process. The voice of my bishop telling me he’d approved my going to seminary. The voice of the admissions officer at Virginia Theological Seminary telling me I’d been accepted. The seminary dean’s voice telling me I’d graduated. And at the end, the bishop’s voice once again, telling me – and the world – that I’d been made (first) a deacon in God’s Church and then (a few months later) a priest.
Through it all of course was the voice of God, nudging me from the very beginning and speaking through all I encountered along the way. There was naturally my own inner voice continually asking God, “Are you sure you want me to be a priest?” Despite the fear that kept rising that maybe it was my own voice I was following, I’d learned by the end of the process and its many powerful moments that it was indeed God’s voice – the voice – answering my repeated question. Yes.
If my journey was outlined in Genesis it would start, “The Lord said to Matt, ‘Go be a priest,’” followed by several more chapters of intervening steps before ending, “So Matt became a priest.” Abram’s journey was far different. Setting aside my love of considering what might be found in the gaps of scripture and focusing here on just what we have in the text, it was a simple process encapsulated in four verses. God said go; he went. No committees. No interviews. No admissions officers. No grand liturgies. There was just one voice: God’s. Abram, move. In response there was no debate or bargaining, no asking, “Are you sure it’s me you want, God?” In fact we don’t even hear Abram’s voice. He instead spoke through his actions. Abram moved.
Notice however what’s missing. God only gives Abram a direction; he doesn’t reveal the destination. This of course won’t be the last time this lack of clarity about an end point is found in a command given to Abram. In chapter 22, when God tells (the then-renamed) Abraham to take his son Isaac and give him as a sacrifice and burnt offering, he’s only clear that he’d be led to a spot “on one of the mountains that I shall show you.”[1] But from the outset Abram’s relationship with God has a bit of mystery. I’ll tell you what you’re doing, Abram, but you won’t know where you’re going.
The journey to that unknown destination will come with a mixed bag of responses; some will favor Abram; others will curse him. God says that whatever those people give to him will be revisited upon them by what God gives to them. But even with the destination still a blank space, the promise is filled in: the promise of blessing, one available to all families through Abram. We’ll see at later points that Abram will be the recipient of blessings. For now, he’s the conduit.
In his commentary on Genesis, the late Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann said there are two calls in this book. Creation was the first, the calling of all life into being. Here with Abram we have the second, a call to “an alternative community … God calls the hopeless ones into a community with a future. He calls the fixed ones into pilgrimage.”[2] The fixed ones in the land of Haran, Abram and his family, have now been called to a pilgrimage. Most pilgrimages we take have an end – a journey across Spain to Santiago de Compostela, or one south through England to Canterbury Cathedral. For Abram, though, the end of his pilgrimage couldn’t be marked on a calendar or a map.
But he still went. He gave up all stability, all he knew, and went. In my own journey, I gave up my job and the stability shared with my family for a journey that, while the result could be identified, was still one in which the intermediate steps were unclear. Now you may listen to my story, or the story of Abram, or any story of a sudden change in direction and think, “That was a bold move!” Yes, such changes in direction – such changes in mission – may indeed be a sign of boldness. But in following God – following God fully and instantly – I think it’s also a sign of humility.
It takes humility to set aside those things that center us and keep us rooted – those things that are known – and venture into the unknown. It takes humility to see the needs of others and, setting aside our stability, venture into their instability. It takes humility to look at things causing pain to the human family and this fragile earth and, setting aside our comfort, venture into their discomfort. It takes humility to decrease ourselves so that others may increase. It takes humility to follow God’s call – not just hear it but answer it.
When we plan, we try to set an end to which we can point. When we follow God’s plan, however, we don’t know where the journey will lead. We don’t know where the pilgrimage will end. In his powerful book Cry, the Beloved Country, the South African author Alan Paton wrote
Who indeed knows the secret of the earthly pilgrimage? Who knows for what we live, and struggle, and die? Who knows what keeps us living and struggling, while all things break about us? … But this, the purpose of our lives, the end of all our struggle, is beyond all human wisdom. Oh God, my God, do not Thou forsake me. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, if Thou art with me….[3]
When God calls, answer. When you’re called to a new type of journey, go. If you can’t see the destination, trust. Staying may avoid some near-term chaos, but as we see in the story of Abram – and as I’ve seen in my own life – going yields rewards.
Going will be enriching.
Going will be blessing.
Amen.
[1] Genesis 22:2 (NRSV).
[2] Walter Brueggemann. Genesis, p. 117-8.
[3] Alan Paton. Cry, the Beloved Country (Kindle edition), p. 84.