What a great pleasure it is to welcome all of you to our humble sanctuary on this early August Sunday morning!
Allow me to acknowledge that for many of you, your accustomed to church was just a little bit longer than usual this Sunday morning, and that, in light of this, it is my sincere hope that our musical selections, and my ruminations on Holy Writ (such as they are) will be worth that extra time you spent wending your way up Route 202.
As you may know, I recently had the pleasure of visiting with the delightful Marge Thomas, a long time parishioner of The Ashburnham Community Church, who is, sadly, not with us this morning, because she is patiently (or impatiently) waiting for the doctors to give her the thumbs up to go home from St Vincent’s hospital, down there in Worcester Mass. I bring her greetings to all of you this morning – she wants you to know that she is grateful for all the prayers that you have sent winging up to heaven on her behalf, and you will be glad to know that even though she has temporarily traded in her street clothes for one of those annoying hospital Johnnys that you can never tie in the back – you know the ones I’m talking about – in spite of all that, you’ll be glad to know that the mischievous glint in Marge’s eyes has not been dampened in the least.
Incidentally, I can also report that Marge gave my preaching a quick evaluation… kind of a yelp review for the United Church of Jaffrey. She leaned in, and told me what she thought:
“When we came up to Jaffrey that time,” she said “I liked your preaching.”
“Oh yeah?” says I, eager to hear more.
“Yes,” she said. “It was not too… preachy!”
Well! That says it all! My one great ambition, in preaching, is not to put people to sleep… and I imagine being “preachy” might induce some people to think it’s time for a nap… so if I am somehow steering clear of being preachy, I must be doing something right.
I hope so, anyway.
**
Passersby who walk by the United Church of Jaffrey, and see my name painted on the shingle out front, will understand the name “Mark”… Mark is a familiar name. Here in the church, we know the name Mark to be associated with the writer of the first gospel. Mark presents no difficulty.
The same cannot be said for the name “Koyama.”
What kind of name is that?
For those of you who don’t know, Koyama is a Japanese name.
To be half-Japanese in America is an interesting thing to be. I once met an old man who, when he heard my name said to me: “Your uncle killed my uncle.”
It was a strange thing to hear – but I had to admit the truth of it. The fact cannot be denied that one short generation ago my father’s people and my mother’s people (my mother is American) were locked in one of the most brutal and devastating wars in human history.
My father was born in Tokyo in the year of our lord 19 hundred and 29, which made him a tender 14 years of age in the spring of 1945 when American B-29’s systematically burned that city to the ground. Miraculously – but also because of the remarkable strength and resourcefulness of my Obasaan (my Japanese grandmother) – my father and all of his siblings survived the war.
This, as you can imagine, made for a very painful childhood. But there was something else that was also at work in my father’s childhood… something that made his life very strange indeed.
You see, my father grew up in a Christian family.
My father’s grandfather – my great-great grandfather – Sotaro Koyama, was converted to Christianity in the waning years of the 19th century, when he heard the Word of God proclaimed in the streets of Tokyo by a British missionary named Herbert Brand. Sotaro raised his son, Zentaro as a Christian, and so Kosuke, my father, was to be the third generation in a pious Christian family.
When the war with the United States erupted
About to be baptised into the religion of the enemy.
the religion of the enemy
**
Allow me to draw your attention to the passage from the Book of 25th chapter of Genesis that I read for you earlier. Since scripture passages often have the rascally habit of entering one ear and sneaking out the other, I make it a practice to always include the morning’s scripture passages in the bulletin, so you can refer to it if you so desire.
This passage, in particular, has very little to say for itself. It sounds like something you might find scribbled in a registry of deeds at the local courthouse. For the record, an old timer named Abraham died. He lived a long life. Before he died he gave this and that to this and that son. After he died he and his wife were buried in a certain plot of land that he’d bought from such and such a guy.
So what…
Well, I submit to you that this little snippet, pulled from a dusty Banker’s box in the cellar of the Book of Genesis, has within it, a pretty interesting cross-section of life in the Ancient Near East.
The “why” of the passage is clear – it is there to inform us that Abraham died, and that he was buried in a certain place.
What about the “who?” Who shows up in this passage?
The primary figure in the passage is Abraham, the first patriarch of the Jewish people – a pretty important guy. Abraham’s concubines who gave birth to some of his sons, are mentioned, though not by name. The sons of these concubines are similarly mentioned but not named. Isaac, Abraham’s only legitimate son, is named and identified as the beneficiary of “all” Abraham “had.” Ishmael, Abraham’s oldest son, whose mother, Hagar, was a slave, is mentioned by name. A man named Ephron also appears in passing – he was the previous owner of the field where Abraham was buried. Ephron’s father Zohar the Hittite is identified, no doubt, to specify which Ephron we are talking about. And finally, Sarah, Abraham’s wife is named.
If you take a quick look at the map of the Ancient Near East that is located on the back of this morning’s bulletin, I hope you will see why I think this passage is important.
In order for the passage to exist as it does, people had to converge on Canaan from all over the Ancient Near East.
Abraham himself, was an immigrant in the land of Canaan. Chapter 11 verse 31 of Genesis tells us that Abraham (then named Abram) lived in Chaldea, in a place called Ur. (The yellow arrow on the map shows his journey) As a young man, Abram left Ur because, as it is told in the Chapter 12 of Genesis:
The Lord had said to Abram, “Go from your country, your people and your father’s household to the land I will show you.
Abraham, an immigrant from Chaldea, bought some land from a man named Ephron, who is the son of Zophar the Hittite. In order for this transaction to happen Zophar had to emigrate from far north in the land of the Hittites (this journey is described by the Red arrow).
Finally, Abraham’s sons Isaac and Ishmael have to come together to bury their father. Isaac did not have to travel, but Ishmael came from Egypt, where he had settled and taken a wife (this according to Genesis 21:17-21). This journey is depicted as a blue arrow.
This passage, which it would be easy to miss, indicates that the Ancient Near East was, during Antiquity, what it continues to be today – an area where people move from place to place in search of what is best for themselves and their families. The matter of fact reporting of this passage suggests that the business dealings that occurred between Abraham and Ephron were a matter of course. That Abraham’s two sons – Ishmael and Isaac – came together, in spite of their differences – this too is reported quickly, as if it’s no big deal.
But their differences were a big deal.
The story of Ishmael and Isaac is a tale of terror. Being childless into her old age, Sarah, in desperation, ordered Abraham to lie with her slave Hagar. Ishmael was the result. And then, defying all odds, Sarah had a child in her old age. That child was Isaac. Regretting her previous plan, Sarah forced Abraham to send Hagar and Ishmael into the desert without food and water to die. Miraculously, but also because of the remarkable strength and resourcefulness of his mother Hagar, Ishmael survived that ordeal. Making his way south, established a nation of people.
The relationship between the two brothers was defined by this painful legacy of betrayal and exile.
And yet, when the old man died, the two brothers put aside their differences and came together.
Why?
They came together because they had a shared purpose that was greater than themselves.
**
My father was baptised into the Christian faith in 1942. He was thirteen years old, which is about the age that one of our young people might be confirmed, and have his or her spirit challenged by the teachings of the Christian faith. Under normal circumstances being baptised might make a thoughtfully inclined young person meditate about the confusing world we live in, and the mystery of the divine.
My Dad was no exception – he was not one to take baptism lightly. But his early religious meditations did not take place in normal circumstances. His encounter with Jesus took place in the midst of a cataclysm of violence. In April of 1942, American B-29’s began raiding Japanese cities. My father’s ideas about God and about human history were intricately entwined with the reality of war.
The messiah who came “for the forgiveness of sins” appeared amidst the drone of incoming planes.
He was listening for the high pitched whistle and the burst of incendiary bombs… but he was also attuned to a savior’s voice that said:
“Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”
How did he maintain his Christian faith through the crucible of war? I have often wondered how he possibly resolved the painful contrast between Christ’s message of love and forgiveness on the one hand, and the brutal reality of the war on the other… I think it would have been too much for me. Running away from bombs, doesn’t seem compatible with belief in a compassionate savior. I would be sorely tempted to curse a God who would allow such a thing to happen.
My father’s faith must have been pretty strong.
But recently, when I reread a long letter that my father wrote to his grandchildren a few months before his death, I discovered these surprising words:
I became a Christian, my father wrote, , not because of my personal conviction but because the community to which I belonged encouraged me to do so. I am happy about this. Had I been baptized by my personal conviction how could I have been a Christian all these years when I have changed or modified a number of my once deep felt convictions? I am happy that my journey was not based on my private faith, but on the support I received from the community of faith. “I believe in the communion of saints”.
**
I recognize, in my father’s words, one of the most beautiful things about Christianity.
To be a Christian is to have an abiding faith in the strength and the essential goodness of being in community.
This, surely, is what Jesus meant when he said:
where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.’
You can live alone in the forest and call yourself a Christian – I suppose that is possible.
But in my experience – and I believe in most people’s experience, Christianity comes alive when it is experienced in community.
This is not accidental. I think it is by design. We become Christian when we are together, because it is only when we are together that we create the context and the possibility for love and mutual respect. These are the conditions in which God’s pleasure to give us the Kingdom.
Jesus did not teach us to pray …
My father who are in heaven…
He taught us to pray: our father who are in Heaven
Jesus didn’t teach us to pray “Give me, this day my daily bread.”
He taught us to pray “Give us, this day our daily bread.”
Christianity is not a first-person-singular religion.
It is a second-person-plural religion.
Our scriptures offer us this lesson over and over again.
If, like Ishmael and Isaac, we hope to honor something greater than ourselves, we must set aside the my and build up, instead, the our.
My father did not persevere through the end of the war because of some impenetrable, iron-clad faith.
He spent time with other people of faith… and when he did so, Jesus was there with him.
The bombs were real
But so was love.
Amen.