Beyond Imagination

Genesis 15.  Abram cries out to God in despair of descendants.  All that he has gained, all that he has built, and no heir, not even one.  Instead, Eliezer of Damascus, no relative, not even a local boy, is set to inherit at the time of Abram's death.  In a society that seeks eternal life not through heaven but through grandchildren, Abram despairs a fate worse than death.

God replies with ridiculous promises.  No heir?  Your heirs will number more than the stars in the sky.  Abram, bless him, believes God despite the wild exaggeration of the promise.  At least he maybe believes the part about the stars.  There are still questions.  "How will I know that the real estate part will work out?"

God's response is a ritual, very ancient, very profound.  A covenant of great bloody drama of the sort usually reserved for covenants between kings and nations.  The reference books tell us that ancient rulers would make covenant this way.  Modern folk prefer a pen and paper, or perhaps a computerized contract, but cutting animals in half and passing between them certainly creates a certain memorable and messy flair. 

After all, you can write down a grocery list as easily as a covenant.  The important covenants need a little extra fanfare.

The text spirals into the future after the covenant ceremony.  God almost mocks Abram's despair over his heir.  "You think you're hopeless?  Your descendants will give new definition to hopeless.  They will live in slavery for four centuries.  If that doesn't kill hope dead, I don't know what else could."

Why should a childless old man be able to imagine grandchildren numbered like the stars of the sky (prior to the modern phenomenon of light pollution that reduces visible stars to single digit numbers).  Why should people in slavery for year after year and century after century believe that one day they will be free?

Why did Martin Luther King, Jr. believe his dream?  It was beyond belief in his time.  In an era of separate bathrooms, separate sections of bus seating, separate water fountains, separate schools--a time of lynchings and fire hoses and dogs and guns--why could MLK talk about us living in peace and prosperity together?

Martin was one of the stars in the sky over Abram's head, a descendant of faith, a descendant of Abram's story and his promise.

Genesis 15, like so many passages of the Bible, spirals the time zones of the story together, so that one person's despair is linked to the despair of thousands.  More importantly, the time spirals so that one person's hope represents the hope of us all.

Part of the wondrous crazy of religious thought is the challenge to look beyond the evidence at hand, to hope for things not only to get a little better, but to go through utter transformation.

This week another black man spoke to a hurting nation, offering words of comfort and words of challenge.  He encouraged us to put aside the vitriol that divides us and to work together for a better future.  From his role as President he again picked up the ancient tradition of believing in a future not indicated by present evidence.

How can we believe in a future at all?

Even in the midst of the darkest hours, a light passes between the broken pieces of our lives.  The covenant lives.  The stars shine.  There is hope.