Sermons

“Should I Stay or Should I Go?”

Psalm 139:1-12, 23-24; Genesis 28:10-19a & 19b – Rev. Rebecca Littlejohn

Vista La Mesa Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), La Mesa, California – July 23, 2017

Holy God, bless the speaking and the hearing of these words that our hearts might be softened and stretched till we truly believe you are everywhere. In the name of Jesus we pray, Amen.

Let us begin this morning by acknowledging that we are gathered this morning, as we are every Sunday morning, on land stolen from the Kumeyaay people, in some way or another. I do not pretend to have detailed knowledge of this theft, but the truth is that we don’t need to details to see that we are here now, and mostly, they are not. Let us hold that reality in our hearts with gentle humility.

Another way of getting us started today is to confess that I would not be preaching this sermon if the designers of the lectionary had not made the strategic decision to cut off the reading from the Hebrew scriptures after the first half of verse 19. Whenever they shave things so closely, it makes me suspicious: Why stop here rather than there? Why end artificially soon, instead of at the natural stopping point? Today’s extra-close trim seemed particularly egregious, given what they were aiming to leave out. Eleven short words, but words that open a whole other perspective, if we take the time to read them: “But the name of the city was Luz at the first.”

Honestly, if they’d left these 11 words in, I doubt we would have thought much about them. The pericope is about Jacob’s dream of the angels going up and down the stairway to heaven. It’s about Jacob having his own experience of the presence and promise of God, so that he could claim for himself the faith of his father and grandfather. And it is, perhaps most importantly in the broader arc of the Hebrew scriptures, one of a multitude of reiterations of the promise God made to the Israelites that, as “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” puts it, they “have been promised a land of our own.”

It seems it is that last point that the lectionary designers were aiming to leave undisturbed by their avoidance of the 11 words of verse 19b. The point of the story – the goal of telling the story – is to commemorate the occasion of Jacob meeting God in this sacred place, Beth-El, which serves to strengthen the narrative of the Promised Land, a place set apart for the Chosen People. To mention that this special place already had a name – before Jacob camped there, before he had a holy dream, before he set up his stone pillow as an altar and anointed it with oil – is to open the door to the realization that there were already other people living in Luz – people who had already given their home a name, people who had likely had their own experiences of God there, people who, apparently and sadly for them, were not as “Chosen” as Jacob and his descendants. From the perspective of the Hebrew scriptures and evidently even more so the lectionary designers, the residents of Luz were in the way, and so they are made invisible.

I wonder sometimes if we, as Americans, can relate to this strong theme of connection to the Land that permeates our First Testament. The truth is that we just haven’t been around all that long. I was reading my box of Bigelow tea bags this morning, which was telling the story of the venerable company’s origins – in 1945. What we often consider “history” is less than 100 years old. Whether your ancestors came on the Mayflower or just a generation or two ago, most of us come from people who chose not to stay in their homelands (or were forced to leave). We are the children of the ones who left, who struck out for places unknown, who left behind the land of their birth, the soil that formed them, the trees and brooks that sang their family’s song. Does this make us different? Is it an important part of our identity? Or does that break from the past merely haunt our sense of self at a subconscious level, bequeathing a basic restlessness that keeps us from getting too settled?

How does a country full of immigrants relate to a faith that is rooted in story of belonging to the Land? When someone like Rachel comes to visit with us, how do we even begin to comprehend a conflict that is rooted in claims to the Land that extend 500, 2000, 6000 years into the past? I’ve had the chance to watch Rachel explaining the Palestinian/Israeli conflict and particularly the Israeli occupation of Palestinian territories to two groups of high schoolers over the past few weeks. This past Wednesday morning, one of the campers asked why the Israelis hate the Palestinians so much. Given everything Rachel had shared about how Palestinians are treated by the Israeli government and soldiers, it was a sensible question. And yet, as Rachel tried to clarify, the conflict itself is really about the land, not the people. The burden of the Palestinians is that they’re in the way, and so for decades, just like the lectionary designers, the Israeli government has tried to make them disappear, which looks a lot like hatred. If we are the children of the ones who left home, rather than the ones who stayed and laid claim, how do we comprehend such a situation?

And yet, those kids got it. We’ve already revealed our hand this morning, when we sang our gathering song. It turns out that the children of those who left home are just as prone to laying claim as those who stay. “This land is your land, this land is my land, from the redwood forest, to the New York islands.” Such a heart-warming American folk song, till we start to notice the undertones of “manifest destiny” shaping the basic premise. I’m sorry to ruin the song for you (and I suppose there may be ways we can rehabilitate it), but this land isn’t yours or mine anymore than Beth-el was Jacob’s to name. There was someone here before us. “The name of the city was Luz at the first.” Let us speak the name of the Kumeyaay. The campers up at Loch Leven saw the connection between the Palestinian/Israeli conflict and the genocide of native populations that made this country what it is today.

What is it about humanity that gives us this possessive streak, this need to stake our claim to a plot of ground, to declare that it is ours and no one else’s, even if we have to wrest it from another’s control by force? Where does our tendency toward tribalism come from? And why do we so often insist on dressing it in divine favor, whether with phrases like “promised land” and “chosen people” or “manifest destiny” and “sea to shining sea”? It’s not as though this is the only narrative in our holy writings. Despite the repeated promises throughout the Hebrew scriptures of a land and descendants numerous as the sands, there is also the refrain “My father was a wandering Aramean.” In the gospels, Jesus reminds us that “the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head” and sends us out to the “ends of the earth.” And then, of course, there are the assurances of Psalm 139. God is with us in a box; God is with us with a fox. God is with us on a train; God is with us in the rain. God is with us here or there; God is with us everywhere!

Given the subject matter, I couldn’t resist using another pop culture reference for the sermon title today. (It is ComicCon weekend after all!) In their song, The Clash offers us some truth that applies to the dilemma we’ve been discussing: “If I go, there will be trouble, and if I stay it will be double.” We’re never going to figure out this land thing. We will always be bumping into someone. There will always be someone else there first, no matter what sort of divine right to move in we may try to construct for ourselves. There are better uses for our faith.

We have trouble whether we stay or whether we go, so perhaps it’s time to realize that where we are is not the problem. Nor is it the solution. God is with us wherever we are, whether we realize it or not. When we replace God with attachment to homeland or tribe, it’s easy to feel threatened or displaced.

We cannot solve the problem of everyone needing somewhere to be. But we can make it easier if we focus on the aspects of our faith that empower us to share peacefully, respecting the land itself and all the people trying to live on it. If we can cultivate a sense of God’s presence and protection that is not dependent on defending our territory, we will be better at loving our neighbors. If we can remember with humility that we are both newcomers and occupiers ourselves, we can move toward reconciliation with those whose land we have taken, while at the same time learning to welcome those who arrive seeking shelter here now. If we can come to truly believe that even if we took the wings of the morning and settled at the farthest limits of the sea, even there God’s hand would hold us and guide, perhaps we can keep from feeling so desperately alone.

God loves us, weak and mortal though we be. It is amazing good news. Let us try to embrace it, together, wherever we may find ourselves. Alleluia and Amen.