First Person Plural

I'm back! After a three month sabbatical, it's great to be back in the pulpit at First Presbyterian Church of Sterling, IL.




First Person Plural
Genesis 45:1-15, Matthew 15:21-28
August 20, 2017
First Presbyterian Church, Sterling IL
Christina Berry

Our first reading today comes from the book of Genesis, the almost final chapter of a story we looked at six years ago. If you’ve ever seen “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” you’ll remember that this is the big moment, when Joseph and his brothers are reunited, and he urges them to escape the famine and join him in Egypt. The reason this is such a powerful story is the events that led up to it do not predict a happy ending. Joseph’s brothers, jealous of his position as the favorite, threw him in a pit, then sold him as a slave, and told their father Jacob that he was dead. Now, in Egypt, they have come to ask for food, not knowing it is Joseph they are asking. And Joseph has recognized them, but concealed his true identity. Let’s listen for God’s word to us as Joseph reveals his identity to his brothers.

Genesis 45:1-15
1 Then Joseph could no longer control himself before all those who stood by him, and he cried out, "Send everyone away from me." So no one stayed with him when Joseph made himself known to his brothers. 2 And he wept so loudly that the Egyptians heard it, and the household of Pharaoh heard it. 3 Joseph said to his brothers, "I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?" But his brothers could not answer him, so dismayed were they at his presence.
4 Then Joseph said to his brothers, "Come closer to me." And they came closer.
He said, "I am your brother, Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt. 5 And now do not be distressed, or angry with yourselves, because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life. 6 For the famine has been in the land these two years; and there are five more years in which there will be neither plowing nor harvest. 7 God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth, and to keep alive for you many survivors. 8 So it was not you who sent me here, but God; he has made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of all his house and ruler over all the land of Egypt. 9 Hurry and go up to my father and say to him, 'Thus says your son Joseph, God has made me lord of all Egypt; come down to me, do not delay.10 You shall settle in the land of Goshen, and you shall be near me, you and your children and your children's children, as well as your flocks, your herds, and all that you have. 11 I will provide for you there--since there are five more years of famine to come--so that you and your household, and all that you have, will not come to poverty. 12 And now your eyes and the eyes of my brother Benjamin see that it is my own mouth that speaks to you. 13 You must tell my father how greatly I am honored in Egypt, and all that you have seen. Hurry and bring my father down here."
14 Then he fell upon his brother Benjamin's neck and wept, while Benjamin wept upon his neck.
15 And he kissed all his brothers and wept upon them; and after that his brothers talked with him.


Our gospel reading is from Matthew, with a story of reconciliation that is equally unexpected, but different in that it involves Jesus, and a woman who is seeking healing- not for herself, but for her daughter. The turn of events and the change of heart in this story show us that reconciliation, and inclusion of all people, are crucial to our lives as followers of Christ. Let’s listen for God’s word to us in Matthew 15: 21-28.

Jesus left that place and went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon. Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting, "Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon." But he did not answer her at all. And his disciples came and urged him, saying, "Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us."
He answered, "I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel."
But she came and knelt before him, saying, "Lord, help me."
He answered, "It is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs."
She said, "Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table."
Then Jesus answered her, "Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish."
And her daughter was healed instantly.

The word of the Lord.
Thanks be to God.



I want to start out by saying how good it is to be home. And when I first looked at these stories I saw this joyful reunion, Joseph weeping with joy to see his brothers, and of the joy of the Canaanite woman as Jesus, rather belatedly, welcomed her into the family of faith.

These stories made me think of family reunions, the kind in books, where people separated by conflict are reunited and reconciled; where the outcast comes home and is welcomed and embraced. Then, in spite of their continued troubles and their history of dysfunction, they somehow all manage to get along swimmingly until the end of time.

You know, fiction!

That makes these two texts very appealing. We love these pictures of Joseph embracing his brothers, weeping with joy at their reunion, forgiving them. We delight in that image from the Psalm that we heard in the call to worship, of covenant kin together in unity, as beautiful as being anointed with oil, as lovely and breathtaking as the dew on Mount Hermon. But they are not all about happy reunions and welcome and inclusion.

They are just chapters in much bigger stories, stories about God, stories about Jesus, and stories about us. The joy is still there. But as you know, even in the closest families, there is conflict, and even our best efforts don’t entirely wipe out our memories – of old resentments, of injustice, of emotional pain.

As we have seen from the events in our country over that last couple of weeks, history is strong, and it speaks loudly, and because of it, unity is not easy.

Take this imagery from the story of Joseph – beautiful as it is. We don’t really get the brothers’ point of view, and any of us who have siblings know that family stories are never so clear cut, never have definite heroes and villains. History, whether for a family or a country, is complicated. There are always three or four sides to every story. We’ve seen that demonstrated these last few days as people try to unpack all the events and conflicting stories that have emerged from Charlottesville.

Some accounts would have us believe that those carrying Nazi emblems and shouting epithets were the peaceful marchers, simply protesting the removal of a statue, proud patriots preserving history, victims, not aggressors. Eyewitness accounts reject this version, pointing out that the “Unite the Right” marchers came with shields, carrying torches, shouting anti-semitic chants, and were surrounded by armed militia.

Some would put forth a false equivalence, saying they were all doing wrong. But the motivating cause of one group is violent exclusion, racism, supremacy, while the motivating cause of the other group is justice and equality. You, of course, must make your own decision about that.

But there is one group about whom all the stories in the media and in social media seem to agree. They were faith leaders. As my friend David Shearman so eloquently puts it: “Among the many untold stories of the harrowing day are the stories of hundreds of religious leaders who descended on Charlottesville to resist white supremacy. While images of prayerful resistance are often less eye-catching than bloody fists, spiritual protesters were still a crucial part of both the counter-protests and relief efforts. Wearing preaching robes and stoles, clerical collars and shirts, they stood arm in arm in silent witness against the hate that stood before them…”[1]

How did they do that? I’m not sure I’d have the courage for it. But I’m not sure most of us would.
I’d at least want those people to know how wrong they are. They could have shouted angrily at the white supremacists and their racist rhetoric. They could have preached and moralized and told them a thing or two.

And if I’d been in Joseph’s sandals, I’d have had a thing or two to say to those brothers of mine!
I’d start with “How could you?” and probably move on to “How dare you?”
How could you treat me that way?
How dare you come and ask for my help?

Imagine – ten of your eleven brothers set out to kill you, but instead they sell you as a slave. You end up in jail, and are nearly executed, except for the fact that you have a knack for dream interpretation. Your skill at understanding the symbolism in dreams gets you out of jail, and into a position to prepare for a coming drought. Knowing that lean years are ahead, you store up enough grain so that everyone can survive. Then, your brothers appear, all the way from their homeland, and you have a golden opportunity!

Your brothers come with their hands out, asking for food.
Bam! Nail them, right?
Drop the hammer, right?

But he doesn’t.

Joseph doesn’t take his opportunity to shame or moralize or press his case any more than those clergy in Charlottesville. I’m not sure most of us could demonstrate that kind of grace. I know it would be a difficult challenge for me. And it was probably a difficult challenge for Joseph.

But Joseph was a follower of the God of Israel,
the God of Joseph’s father and mother, Jacob and Rachel,
the God of his grandparents, Isaac and Rebekah,
the God who spoke to his great-grandparents, Abraham and Sarah.
I will make you a great nation, God promised.
You are my people, God said.

God has not appeared to Joseph, to guide him.
God has not directed his actions with divine counsel.
But Joseph believes in God’s promise.

He does not take advantage of this opening to reproach his brothers. Joseph doesn’t hit them with all the pent up fury - the recriminations that he must have at least thought over the years. There is no outpouring of his stored up anger and pain at least not publicly. Joseph first goes away, privately, to weep. He is overcome, wailing in agony, so that everyone in the place can hear him.

Then he returns to his brothers and tells them who he is. While they are still reeling in shock and dismay and probably fear, he explains how this moment came to be:
God sent me before you to preserve life.
God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth…
It was not you who sent me here, but God;
God has made me lord of all Pharaoh’s house and ruler over all of Egypt.
Hurry and bring my father down here.

What Joseph’s brothers intended for harm, God turned around for something beneficial. That was not just beneficial for Joseph, but for his entire family – his father, eleven brothers, their wives and offspring, their servants – all of the house of Jacob. Joseph understood that salvation – for all of them- for all of Israel, came from the God of Israel, and he understood that this was for all of his covenant kin. In other words, Joseph might have said, it is “WE” not “ME.”

I think that’s why Joseph wept, and how he could embrace his brothers. That’s what empowered and emboldened those clergy, marching arm in arm straight into the torchlight of those angry young men. They saw that God’s action in the world was on behalf of all of people. They were marching in unity with the assurance that God’s love is stronger than hate, and God’s grace is bigger than any national boundary, stretching across politics, party, people, and even our narrow view of history. They marched together, as one: not just me, but we.

It’s interesting, I think, that in the book of Genesis, when God refers to God’s self, it is also in the first person plural. “Let us make humans in our image.” God is a God of community, of relationships, of covenant. Because that’s who God is, that is who we are made to be. We can’t do that independently – operating only in first person singular.

We need each other,
to know who we are,
to help each other,
to learn how to live together in this world.

The gospel lesson demonstrates this, too, that the grace of God in Jesus Christ is not limited to a certain race or ethnic group, even though Jesus seems to say that at first.
He tells the Canaanite woman, “No, I’m not here for you.”
And she replies, in effect, “Jesus, Canaanite lives matter.”
Jesus agrees with her, and gives her the healing she seeks.

The healing mercy of God is available to all people, of every race and creed and nationality and ethnicity and rank and station.
Even to Canaanites.
Even to Samaritans.
Even to neo-Nazis.
Even to me and you.

It is in that mercy that we live and move, in that mercy that we find our connection and our community. It isn’t by our own will power, not by gritting our teeth and putting up with each other!

Our community – the “we” of First Presbyterian Sterling, is a priceless gift from God! In these three months that I’ve been away, I’ve come to value this congregation more than ever before. I’ve had the chance to meet with some of my colleagues, who listen with a slight tinge of friendly envy as I describe this community of faith. I’ve proudly described you and your wonderfulness as other clergy marvel at the fact that you gave me this gift of sabbatical, and that there were five of you who were courageous and gifted enough to step into the pulpit to preach and lead worship. While I’ve been away, I’ve heard some sad tales of congregations who don’t seem to be interested in unity, as brothers and sisters, who think about church in terms of “me” instead of “we.”

I’ve had time to reflect on and rejoice in our shared ministry together,
And I’ve missed you!
Of course, we don’t always agree.
I’m pretty sure that I don’t always live up to your expectations, and sometimes you don’t do exactly what I want you to do! But we are one family of faith, with all our eccentricities and flaws, with all our gifts and graces. In the midst of all the daily back and forth of living in community, we are bound together by God’s presence, by God’s love, by God’s forgiveness and grace. Even when we follow our own selfish paths, God can take what we have done and use it for something good – if we are willing, like Joseph, to offer mercy, to reach out with an embrace of welcome.

If God can forgive like that, will we?
If God can love like that, can we?
The answer is yes, we will; yes, we can,
because the self-giving love of Jesus Christ
draws us together inside a circle of love and unity,
where you and I, us and them, become “we.”

Amen.






[1] David Shearman, “What Goes Around Does Not Come Around” Midrash, August 17, 2017.