The Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

Several years ago, the staff and I were interviewing for the position of parish administrator at Saint Paul's, Norwalk. A 50ish, Catholic woman had applied and we were interviewing her. In addition to describing what her responsibilities and duties would be, we discussed the ethos of our parish and our policy of radical welcome and an open table. “And what do you mean by an open table,” she asked.

I explained it meant that anyone may take Communion no matter who they are or where they may be on their journey of faith to which she responded, moving her hand to her neck, “Oh, clutched my pearls.”  Of course, we did not hire her but after she left we had a really good laugh.

We might want to take a long deep breath—maybe even a gasp—or “clutch our pearls,” after hearing this Genesis lesson. What impression of God and religion do we get when we think about this violent, awful story? How do we preach about this story?

Genesis brings us to the edge of the unthinkable — a father walking up a mountain with his son, carrying wood, carrying questions, carrying a command that makes no sense. It’s a story that forces us to confront the cost of faith, the weight of trust, and the God who interrupts violence with a voice that says, “Stop.”

Still, it’s a terrible story, isn’t it? At best it is a mysterious, demanding story. It raises deep and troubling questions like, “What kind of God asks a father to kill his son?”

Remember that Isaac was not just Abraham’s only son but his wife, Sarah, and he waited for years and years to have a child.

Why would Abraham think that God would demand such a terrible sacrifice? In any civilized society, a person would be condemned and convicted for even attempting to do such a thing. And what about poor Isaac? Can we imagine how traumatized we must have been? How could he ever regain trust in his father having come so close to death at his hand?

The story says that Abraham and his son and two other men whose purpose is never revealed were heading up to the mountain. There Abraham will prepare the altar of sacrifice, his naïve son wondering where that required lamb was—not realizing that he was to be it.

Scholars have suggested that this passage makes a statement against the practice of child sacrifice which was common among the pagan neighbors of the Hebrews, but that’s a stretch. Of course, there is the obvious association to the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross—“the lamb led to the slaughter”, as the psalm says, but none of this seems to justify why the story has such prominence in scripture, Can this ancient story have any significance for us?

Maybe it’s meant to heighten our awareness about the abuse of children in society and the way they are sacrificed in any number of ways, the most obvious in child abuse, sex trafficking, poverty, and pedophilia,

Or the result of making a false anonymous and politically motivated report to Child Protective Services separating 4‑year‑old twins while conducting forensic interviews that will leave awful memories for the children and their parents.

So why did Abraham never question God about this outrageous order to kill his only son. You’d think Abraham could have shouted “No. sorry, God, I won’t do that and I’ll just have to suffer the consequences.” Why didn’t Abraham do that? And what holds us back from shouting “No” in the face of any abuse of children.

Is this story about our right to stand up to others when we feel that a part of us is being sacrificed, that we are being attacked unjustly? Or does it give us permission to tell God “no” if we think we are being asked to do something that flies in the face of everything we hold dear and precious and wholesome?

As Episcopalians, unlike fundamentalist believers, we take the Bible seriously—not literally. In other words, we use the gift of our reason to discern what Scripture is saying to us.

A God who is radically welcoming and who loves us unconditionally and outrageously can also be a God who asks something from us in return but this God also gives us the option of saying “Yes” or “No” to the possibility of great things that God wants for us—great things that just may involve some risk.

Matthew’s Gospel meets us with something far gentler: welcome. A cup of cold water. A recognition that God is found not in grand gestures of sacrifice but in small acts of mercy.

Together these texts ask us: What kind of offering does God actually desire? And what if the holiest thing we can place on the altar is our willingness to welcome, protect, and honor life, especially the most vulnerable?

As we leave this sacred place, where Jesus is truly with us in Word and Sacrament, remember that we have a God who stops Abraham’s hand — the God who interrupts cycles of harm, who refuses to be worshiped through fear, who redirects us toward life.

And remember Jesus’ promise that the smallest act of welcome participates in that same saving work. A cup of cold water. A moment of recognition. A choice to honor the image of God in someone who crosses our path. This is the offering God desires. This is the faith that heals rather than wounds. May we choose the God who interrupts harm, and carry that mercy into a thirsty world.