If we love our children too

A sermon for the Fifth Sunday of Pentecost by Rev’d Deb Bird. (Genesis 22.1-14; Matthew 10.40-42.)

I grew up toward the end of the Cold War but not as a politically aware child. I did not understand the tension between the Soviet Union and United States. I didn’t grasp that there were nuclear weapons poised for launch. But I was also of the MTV generation and like every child, I could sense fear.

I heard fear in songs of the day like “Two Tribes” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, “Land of Confusion” by Genesis, and especially “Russians” by Sting. Russians is a song haunted by the possibility that whole nations might be drawn by escalation of pride and propaganda into destroying one another. It criticizes the logic of mutually assured destruction: the bizarre idea that peace could be maintained by the threat of complete annihilation.

Its chorus is a single sentence upon which all the hope of the songwriter hangs: It would be such an ignorant thing to do, if the Russians love their children too.

We say children are our future. We say they are precious. Many of us would lay down our lives for the children we have birthed, raised, taught, loved, or been in one way or another entrusted with. Yet again and again, adults build worlds in which children bear the cost of our less than perfect agendas: wars in which children are wiped out in massive numbers, the cost of living that impact the ability to protect health and well-being, the presence of domestic violence, millions caught in child slavery, environmental neglect of the world they will inherit, children demonised in political slogans to win elections. 

To love our children is inconsistent with tolerating behaviour that compromises their lives, their dignity, and their future. Which is why we must also comment on problematic stories such as in Genesis chapter 22.

Last week we heard Abraham and Sarah cast Hagar and the child Ishmael into the wilderness. When Sarah was earlier believed to be barren, the couple had used Hagar’s body to secure an heir. But once their own child Isaac arrived, the desire became to restrict the inheritance and blessing of God to themselves. They cast out mother and son, leaving them for dead.

Today we heard the next chapter in that story - Abraham is to make a sacrifice of his son Isaac. They go to the mountain. Isaac is to carry the wood. Abraham carries the knife. Isaac is bound. Abraham lifts the knife. It should feel unbearable to us. The violence is so intimate: father and son, trust and betrayal, faith and terror bound together.

Now let me be clear. If you have ever heard this story used to justify divine violence, or had it implied that such ‘testing’ is a necessary part of your faith, you have heard this story misused. We are Christians. We follow the God revealed in Jesus, who does not desire violence against children, does not sanctify abuse, does not ask the vulnerable to be traumatized by threats for the sake of parental ambition, obedience, or holy theatre. To the contrary, the God revealed in Jesus welcomes children and gives his own life rather than demanding or diminishing the lives of others.

So what do we do with this terrible story?

For a start it’s important to note that just because something made its way into holy scripture it doesn't mean it should be spiritualized. Horror is the only appropriate Christian response to violence, no matter where it is found.

We can recognise that the prevalence of apparently God sanctioned violence throughout scripture is one of the reasons people legitimately reject Christianity. We have to be honest about that and learn how to talk about it. [I recommend the work of John Dominic Crossan and Marcus Borg to help with this.]

And finally, we can wonder on why this story has in fact endured as one we pass on in our tradition. Perhaps, like the story of the Jesus on the cross, this chapter is not about endorsing violence but exposing the human inclination to resort to violence. Perhaps Genesis 22 is a mirror held up: Not a question of will Abraham harm his child in pious obedience? But will Abraham finally see the terrible cost our children bear for the sake of adult ambitions?

In Matthew, Jesus says, “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me.” He speaks of little ones and cups of cold water. Jesus identifies himself not with the raised knife, but with the vulnerable one who must be welcomed, provided for, protected. The gospel produces the imperative for us to keep asking: who are the children who need our welcome, provision, and protection right now? Who is being made to carry wood up the mountain while another carries a knife?

God says, “Do not lay your hand on them.”

That is the gospel voice in this story.
That is the voice that interrupts violence;
the voice that stops adult affairs from becoming a child’s burden;
the voice that insists no promise of God is secured by sacrificing the vulnerable.