Tenth Sunday after Pentecost (17C) – Genesis 18:20-32, Luke 11:1-13
This passage from Genesis is on the short list of my favorites all across the scope of scripture. It comes just on the tails of the story of the three visitors to Abraham and Sarah that we had last week. In the few verses before our reading today, we get a peek into the mind of God, who stops to ask himself whether he should tell Abraham what he’s about to do in Sodom and Gomorrah. Deciding that, if Abraham is to be the progenitor of his chosen people, he ought not hold back; he spills the beans. And then Abraham gives us the first recorded instance of back-talk toward God.
Imagine for just a moment what it would be like to have that kind of relationship with God! To have that clear an audience with the Almighty that you can stand there and speak with Him face-to-face. Not even Moses had the privilege of seeing God’s face; he had to content himself with seeing God’s backside instead. But here, Abraham not only appears to have a perfectly ordinary conversation with God, he also calls God’s own decision into question.
Admittedly, he seems to know the brashness of what he’s doing. He says, “Let me take it upon myself to speak to the Lord, I who am but dust and ashes,” and, “Oh, do not let the Lord be angry if I speak.” But somehow, he just can’t keep silent. He has to speak up! At the risk of his own life, he has to tell God –well, tell God what?
“Will you indeed sweep away the righteous with the wicked,” he asks. And then listen to these words: “Far be it from you to do such a thing, to slay the righteous with the wicked, so that the righteous fare as the wicked. Far be that from you.” That’s a nice, smooth English phrase that doesn’t quite get at it. The Hebrew actually says, “It would profane you! It would defile you, you who are judge of all the earth, not to do that which is just.” A little stronger language than what we use in our typical prayers, perhaps.
And God is persuaded. “All right, all right. For the sake of the righteous, I won’t destroy it.” What is it about Abraham’s speech that convinces God? It’s kind of remarkable, actually. Abraham simply reminds God of who God is. Abraham doesn’t tell God that it’s a bad thing to do–just that it’s not the kind of thing God would do. “But you’re the judge of all the earth! Would you really treat righteous people that way? It doesn’t sound like you, to do such a profane thing.”
Abraham’s example shows us that talking to God, that prayer, can be dangerous enterprise. Why then, do we so often enter into it as if we were sort of bored with the whole idea? “O Lord, please help John with the cataract in his left eye, we’re sure the doctors have go it under control, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have you around.” I know, that’s an unfair caricature for many of us, but you get my point. We often believe in the power of a prayer that really isn’t that powerful! And why not? Our prayers tend to think of God like some cosmic Santa Claus who stand ready to grant every wish, if only we say it sincerely enough, or in the right way with the right words, or maybe if we say it often enough, which, to be honest, is the mindset of Jesus seems to be advocating in the gospel reading today in the story of the persistent neighbor. But when is the last time you listened, REALLY listened, to the words he taught his disciples to pray? His words are laden with power, and we stake a claim on that power every time we say them.
Even in the first word: Father. Sometimes I think that we feel that Jesus calls God Father in a way that is unique to him alone. But Jesus invites us to call God Father as well. This is the sign of an ultimate relationship. God is not some far-off deity who created the universe, pressed the start button, and stepped back to see what would happen. God is part of our daily lives; our God is a God who walks among us, who infuses us with the Holy Spirit, who is always right at hand. Calling God our fathers says something significant about who God is, and about who we are, too. If God is our parent, when we must be part of the family. When we pray, then, we are claiming God’s ownership of us. Through our baptism we have become daughters and sons of the creator of the universe, no less children than the only begotten son.
Jesus tells us then to pray for our daily bread. God is the one from whom we expect nourishment, the one who feeds us. We gather on Sundays just for that purpose, to feast on the word of God in the scriptures, and then on the Word of God incarnate in the bread and the wine. It’s funny, Jesus talks about welcoming the stranger and clothing the naked, healing the sick and visiting the imprisoned, yet whenever Christians decide we want to start a ministry, we always think first about feeding people. I think that’s because we know how well God has fed us. That’s who we are, people who have been fed by God’s own self.
“And forgive us our sins,” Jesus says. For some reason, this seems to really have been on Jesus’ mind. And he got in trouble for it, too. Going around and telling people their sins were forgiven like he was God or something. The Pharisees complain about this from time to time, but Jesus keeps doing it anyway. And in many ways, forgiveness is really what Jesus is all about. We tend to think forgiveness is all about doing things we’re not supposed to (and getting away with it), but that’s missing the point. Forgiveness is about faithful relationships. When we forgive someone, we don’t take away their hurtful actions. What’s done is done, and to pretend the past hurt isn’t real would be a lie. Forgiveness is about making a conscious decision that those past hurts aren’t going to stop us from having a present and future relationship. Which is to say that if God goes around forgiving our sins all the time, it’s because he’s not going to let anything get in the way of his love for us. God is faithful, even when we aren’t.
God is father. God feeds us. God forgives us. God is faithful. It sound to me that just as in Abraham’s prayer, when we talk to God, it is a reminder of who God is. Not for God’s sake, perhaps, but for ours. When we pray, it is more a way we remember the God who loves us, a way we center and ground ourselves in the breadth and depth of God’s love for us, a love that will not let us go.
And it does something else, too. It reminds us of who we are. That’s the greatest gift Jesus gives us when he teaches us to pray. We may be the ones who recite them, but the words of the Lord’s Prayer are, in a way, really God telling us over and over again: “You are my child. I will feed and nourish you. I will forgive you. I will always be faithful to you. I will never let you go.” No wonder Christians love this prayer.
I think all prayer really works this way. Which is not to say we shouldn’t pray for what we need. Ask and it will be given to you. Search and you shall find. Knock and the door will be opened to you. But I think God knows already 100 times better than you do what you need. (Nintendo) Maybe we should stop and notice what the things we ask God for say about who we are, and about whose we are. And to trust, too, as we boldly pray for God’s help.
Because God knows that what we need most is God himself. And if you who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him?