Church of the Incarnation

If you've spent an afternoon waiting on an oil change, you've probably gotten to enjoy one of the daytime courtroom reality shows. I think The People's Court started the trend, but now there's Judge Judy and a whole slew of others as well. The premise is simple: a party with a small claims court case agrees to have their case filmed and to abide by the decision of the TV judge. A typical episode unfolds like this: the plaintiff Mary, a 25-year-old woman, is suing her ex-fiancée Ralph for the return of her father's car and her little dog Fifi. She claims Ralph just took off without any explanation, driving away in daddy's car with Fifi hanging her head out the window.

Ralph has a different story to tell. For one thing, he says, they were never engaged. They had talked about maybe getting married one day, but nothing was official. Furthermore, her father gave him the car, which didn't even run at the time, and he had put $500 of his own money into making it run. And Fifi is his - he paid for the dog.

Mary's heartbroken. She feels like Ralph broke a contract with her when he left her. She felt like her father's gift of the car was Ralph's only as long as he stayed with her. And she thought Ralph bought the dog for them together - and she's been the one to feed and love the dog. Legally, Mary doesn't really have a leg to stand on. But she's hurt and angry. She assumed Ralph loved her and was committed to her. She's suing for the car and the dog, but of course what she really wants is Ralph - or for Ralph to hurt as much as she does.

It's not always easy to know if you and your partner are approaching an agreement with the same assumptions. It's why lawyers stay so busy spelling out the details that used to be taken care of with just a handshake.

But it's also why Abram says to God, "Thanks, God. Thanks for promising me offspring as numerous as the stars in the clear night sky. And thanks for promising me this land for my own, to cultivate now and pass on to my sons later. It's all very generous of you. But how can I know that what you promise is true? How can I believe in your goodness when all around me I see predators ready to snatch away whatever you may give me?"

I'm betting many of us grew up in a tradition in which it's not OK to question God like this, to say to him, "God, I've read about all your great promises, and they make a great story, but how can I know for sure that they're anything more than a story?"

But look at how God responds to Abram. Does he say, "Oh ye of little faith, how dare you doubt me?" No. He tells him to go gather some sacrificial animals and cut them in half. This may seem strange. But this was the Old Testament equivalent of getting a lawyer to draw up papers. The Hebrews talked about "cutting" a covenant, not making a covenant. To formalize an agreement, the two parties would bring a sacrificial animal and cut it in half. They would then spell out the terms of the agreement, being specific about what each one agreed to give or do. Both parties would then walk between the two halves of the animal, promising that death will be the punishment if they break their covenant.

So when Abram questions God's promises, God formally cuts a covenant with him. God tells Abram to gather not one but several sacrificial animals and to cut them in half. But then nothing happens. Birds of prey come, and Abram chases them away. And finally the sun goes down. Abram fall asleep, and a terrifying darkness descends on him. And out of that darkness appear a smoking pot and a flaming torch, symbols of God, and they pass between the halved animals. God alone cuts a covenant with Abram. God promises to give everything and asks nothing of Abram in return. God promises Abram eternal life, with generations to follow him and land to call their own. And God requires not one thing from Abram inreturn.

Of course, this is the exact same covenant God cuts with each of us on the cross. God promises us eternal life, and God agrees to do all the work, paying whatever price must be paid, even dying on a cross, and asking nothing of us in return.

It's hard to believe, isn't it? No lawyer would recommend that God sign those papers, and Judge Judy herself would be hard pressed to enforce them.

It's natural to doubt God's promise, to question it, to try to find the loopholes that will allow God an escape clause if we don't earn or deserve it. It's natural to say, like Abram, "God, I need proof."

God wants us to voice our fears, our doubts, our worries. Because it's only when we tell God about them that God can disprove them for us.

Are there things you find hard to believe about God's promise of salvation, of eternal life with God? Tell God about them. Take a minute to write them on the slips of paper in the pew racks in front of you. And then place them on the nails in the cross at the back of the church, either now or on your way to communion or after the service.

And then listen for God to slam Judge Judy's gavel on his big wooden desk and declare you forgiven - case closed.

Amen.