Sermons

I have no idea what it’s like to be truly hungry.
There was only one time in my whole life that I even came close: one summer when Mike and I both found ourselves unemployed at the same time. He qualified for unemployment, but I didn’t, and while we were waiting for his first unemployment check, we paid all the bills that we could pay—left a couple of them that we thought it’d be safe to let slide—and had $28 left in the bank, with no idea how long it would be till we had any more. All there was to eat in our house was a package of freezer-burned chicken soup. We thinned that out and choked it down—it tasted terrible—for a couple meals, then it was gone.

We have skipped quite a lot between last week’s story—Jacob’s dream in which he sees angels ascending and descending a ladder from earth to heaven—and where we pick up today. Jacob, in the course of time after he has that dream, marries two wives—sisters Rachel and Leah—as well as two secondary wives, and has twelve sons and a daughter. The older sons become murderously jealous of the next-to-youngest, Joseph, and he ends up in Egypt. Through a series of twists and turns, Joseph ends up second in command to the king of Egypt, and saves many people from a long famine, including his own father and brothers and their families. His family end up settled in Egypt; and they do pretty well there, even after Joseph’s death.

You probably know the old song by Creedence Clearwater Revival in which a musician finds himself stranded in a place he didn’t intend to stay:  “Oh Lord, I’m stuck in Lodi again.”

Now I suppose if you’re from Lodi, you might not think it’s such a bad place; but it wasn’t where this fellow wanted to be.  He wanted to be back home, and Lodi wasn’t home.

You know, if Abraham were living today, and he claimed God told him to do something like this, we’d be calling Social Services on him and getting him hospitalized for a mental health evaluation. This just isn’t right.

In the beginning, when God created the world, things were chaotic. There was only wind, and water, and darkness. There was nothing that had any form, nothing you could identify as a place or a thing, or a person. Things were without any sense, or rhythm.

It’s interesting to me how much pop culture from my formative years—music, movies, television shows, even books —haven’t worn too well over time.
When I was in the hospital after my first knee replacement, I was awake during the night and had the TV on. Scrolling through the available channels, I happened onto a movie I had enjoyed when I was a teen, Sixteen Candles. A patient care specialist (what I think is called a CNA in other facilities, although I sort of like the other name better) came in, and we were talking a little about the film, and while she said she liked it, I realized that there’s some stuff in there 1983 me thought was hilarious, but that 2021 me found highly appalling.

When I was in the high school band, our director had a sign above his office door. It was a list of rules—a very short list, as it turned out.
Rule number 1: The director is always right.
Rule number 2: If the director is wrong, see rule 1.

Whenever there’s a discussion about moral issues in church, somebody inevitably says, “Well, the Bible says we’re to hate the sin, but love the sinner.” But does it? And can it even be done?
If you Google the phrase, you will find a variety of opinions on the subject. People will bring up Bible passages that they interpret as saying that we are indeed called to hate the sin, but love the sinner. But others look at those same passages and insist they say no such thing. So what are we to believe?

Before my time in Sac City, so I was told, there was an elderly man in the church whose name was Homer. Homer had what nowadays we’d probably call an anxiety disorder.
Every time some pastor would preach on today’s Scripture, Homer would get himself all in a swivet. And he’d go to the pastor and say, “Jesus says not to worry, but I can’t stop worrying. Am I going to go to hell because I can’t stop worrying?”

Years ago a teacher of mine told a story about another teacher, probably a college professor, who gave a final exam to his students. After the usual set of multiple-choice questions, there was a final item, an essay question. It was one word at the top of the page: “Why?”

Once upon a time, there was a king. Like most kings, he was wealthy—but also like a lot of kings, he wanted to be more wealthy. So he asked the gods to give him a gift. This was King Midas, and we all know what gift he asked for: the ability to turn everything he touched into gold. (Be careful what you ask for—you might get it!)

Midas received this gift, but the gods knew more than he did about what it would mean.

In 1607, a group from England came to North America and established a colony in what is now the state of Virginia. They named it after their king: Jamestown. When they got there, the area was a wilderness, and if they were going to be able to live there, a lot of work needed to be done.