Have you ever listened to a sermon and suppressed the urge to stand up and politely shout, "Hey, that's not in the Bible!"? My soul had the opportunity to do that recently--successfully suppress the urge, that is, not use the ever-popular "call-down-the-pastor-in-front-of-the-congregation" etiquette.

I listened to yet another homily on Sarah, Abraham and Hagar that once again sold the Jewish matriarch up the river by stating that her faith was weak because she gave her slave to her husband for the creation of an heir rather than trust God's timing to fulfill his promise. The problem with that old saw is that God never told Abraham that he would give him an heir through Sarah until after Abraham had fathered Ishmael with Hagar. Abraham's reaction was to double over in laughter, prompting the Almighty himself to come up with just the right name for the as-yet unconceived son--Isaac, Hebrew for "he laughs" (Gen. 17:19). Abraham's gut-level reaction indicates that he too had no idea that his elderly wife would be the mother of the nations that God promised (in chapter 15) Abraham would sire. That Sarah had the same involuntary response in 18:12 surely means that she was hearing the news then for the first time--not from her husband, but from the three mysterious visitors who end up being identified as Yahweh as the story progresses.

This chain of events--the promise of an heir in chapter 15, the birth of Ishmael in chapter 16 through Sarah's slave (whom Sarah was obligated to give to her husband as was the custom in Ur, their place of origin, at the time), the revelation of Sarah as the Chosen One in chapter 17, and Sarah's silent guffaw of unpracticed incredulity in chapter 18--are all but ignored by modern Christian preachers (and probably unmodern ones as well, since it seems to be a custom passed from generation to generation). Why?

Laziness may be a good part of it; tradition is an easier path than the road not taken. But I think there is a deeper reason. There seems to be as much reluctance to acknowledge the necessity of this one woman to God's plan as there is to admit that the first disciple was not Andrew or Peter, but Mary, the mother of Jesus. This robbing of importance, this insistence that one man is chosen but any woman will do, is not a mere oversight. It is a source of decay in the implementation of God's will "on earth as it is in heaven." Abraham's seed without Sarah's would not accomplish God's plan--and he visited the couple himself to make sure that Sarah knew this.  Mary was chosen because she was Mary, not just any girl of the right tribe and nation. Had she refused the ridicule of a premarital pregnancy, God would have chosen someone else, sure. But in choosing Mary, he knew he wouldn't have to have a plan B.

Will I hear more sermons on Sarah's lack of faith (maybe even with the added kicker that Isaac was named after her laugh in the tent rather than her husband's fall-over-in-a-hoot response in the previous chapter)? Absolutely. Will I refrain from standing up and setting him or her straight? I hope so. It saddens me that so many graduate from seminary without being able to follow a story arc. One of my professors at Fuller had us illustrate a pericope, not verbally but visually. The lesson was invaluable in showing us how to identity the players, the apex, the beginning and the end. It helped us see that no one should be left out. Most importantly, it showed us that tradition should never trump text.

I was reading in the "Daddy Chair" about an hour ago when the phone rang. It was my son--calling from his room upstairs. "I thought you should know--I just got a breaking news update on my phone that Whitney Houston died." He came downstairs and we surfed the net, looking at IMDB, the Huffington Report, the Hollywood Reporter, CBS, CNN, ABC, BBC. Her death had been reported erroneously before, but this time, sadly, it was true. I cried. She was a sister in Christ--troubled, struggling, often appearing to be angry, but probably just a little scared or frustrated. I loved her voice and I loved her verve. I don't often shed tears for strangers in the entertainment world, but this death struck me harder than others. I can't say that she was a good person or a strong person--I'll leave that to the people who actually knew her. I'll just say that she was a very-much-appreciated person. I'm sorry that she left so soon.

Social Butterfly

I found my gmail account and noticed several e-mails from Twitter, most of them telling me that I was missed and encouraging me to post a Tweet--any Tweet. I had created a Twitter page so long ago I don't remember why I did it. It was kind of like waking up with a tattoo.

I requested the opportunity to create a new password, because, frankly, if you don't even remember creating a worldwide name for yourself as "Nemosnanny," why would you remember the password? I discovered that I had one follower--my friend and boss. Thank you, Peter, for asking the Twitter wallflower with braces and popbottle glasses to dance. I am on Facebook, Twitter and blogspot, but do not flit around much on any of them. A dead butterfly.

Time Flies

When my husband worked as art director for a casual fashion magazine, he brought home a t-shirt with a simple, but memorable, messge: Time Flies Whether You're Having Fun or Not. It has been so long since I've posted to this blog that I had to search for it with the "Tobolowsky" tag.

Time has flown, and so have I. In October I went all the way to Jordan and back(the "back" part being equally important). I was on a press tour sponsored by the tourism board, so the food was good, the lodgings were even better and the schedule was grueling. Rather than lounge in those posh hotel rooms, we spent most of the trip on a tour bus, crisscrossing the country as the board tried to show us everything that might lead us to rave about Jordan in our newspapers/magazines. We had a blast. I would recommend Jordan to even the most reluctant traveler--of which I am one whenever a flight is involved.

When I had the opportunity to revisit Russia half a decade ago, I was nervous about the trip. But Jeff wisely pointed out: "You can take the chances that are given to you, or you can spend your life being afraid." Since time flies no matter what we're doing, we cannot be reluctant about life.

I'm Thinkin' Bizarrebys

My son and I visited our neighborhood fast food eatery Saturday for a roast beef sandwich and a shake.

"This place is kind of weird," he said. "Don't you think the people who work here are a little odd?"

I had to agree. The employees at this particular restaurant are usually as interesting the patrons. And that's saying a lot for a downtown seat-yourself establishment. Unlike the McDonald's a few blocks down the street, where the homeless men from the park mingle with senior citizens from the retirement home--and everyone knows each other's names, problems, dreams and ambitions--the behind-the-counter scene here is the one worth watching.

Saturday we gave our order to a skinny cowboy with a plug of chaw in his lip that remained in place even when he took a smoke break outside the front door. He was assisted by a preppie-looking youth who had to be about six and half feet tall. My favorite though was a girl who was covered in colorful tattoos. Her maroon hair was nearly shaved on one side and long enough to tuck behind her ear on the other. It looked like a curly dragon's claw had gotten stuck in her lobe.

"That is very cool," I told her. I had never seen an ear ornament so long and ornate. It was beautiful.

"Thank you," she said. It may have been a while since someone who looked and dressed like Typical Soccer Mom had offered approval. She became talkative and I enjoyed being a guest in "her place."

After all, we're all "odd." Or at least we were all meant to be atypical. We are told that we are each unique, that there is no one else like us, but then are judged and often judge each other for straying from the standard set by our group. More than a hundred years ago, the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote "Pied Beauty," which praises God for the diversity of His creation. What fun He must have with us, even when we can't seem to stop hurting each other. It's a pleasure being a guest in His place.

The One You Feed

I never expected my first post to be a link to someone else's site, but Stephen Tobolowsky's "A Good Day in Auschwitz," episode 34 of the Tobolowsky Files, is just too good to ignore. Stephen accepts an invitation to the home of an elderly man he met at his synagogue and learns a lot about what it takes to have a good day at Auschwitz.

The story Stephen uses to wrap up the segment hits me right where I live every day. Which wolf do I feed with my attitudes, my thought life--even my prayers?

Since I work in an evangelical environment, worship at a mainline church, studied for the ministry at a well-respected seminary, I know what the answer should be. But I know I have seen the other wolf, the greedy, jealous, murderous wolf, in every religious community I have been part off--and I know for a fact that I have carried that beast there many days myself.

Thank you, Mr. Tobolowsky, for the warning sign on the journey.

--M