Who Told You? | A Sermon about God, the Father
A Sermon by the Reverend Mother Crystal J. Hardin on The First Sunday in Lent, February 26, 2023.
Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7
Is it possible to come across any snake in literature, the arts, or at our feet and not think of that first snake, the serpent . . . more crafty than any other wild animal that the Lord God had made (Gen. 3:1)? I doubt it.
That first snake, only later identified as Satan, made quite the impression, and not for the quality of its bite, but for the precision of its strike.
You will not die, [it tempted]; for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil (Gen. 3:5).
Of course, the implication is that God doesn’t wish Adam and Eve, or us, to be like God at all.
The implication is that God wants less for us than is possible; less for us than we want for ourselves.
Notice, that the snake does not challenge God’s existence or even God’s authority; it is God’s trustworthiness that is called into question.
And the Lord God commanded the man, “You may freely eat of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.” (Gen. 2:16).
And the serpent said, you will not die. You will be like God.
It is God’s very Word that is put in doubt. Will we trust God, or will we take matters into our own hands? That’s the serpent’s move. A precise strike, indeed, because we all know what comes next.
As Emily Dickinson so beautifully reflects, “Sweet is the swamp with its secrets, until we meet a snake” [1].
So, when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate; and she also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate. Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked (Gen. 3:6-10).
We all know this story. It is the story of our lives. Our deepest longing is to be one with God, our Creator. And yet, we chase after that longing in a perverse and paradoxical fashion, confusing oneness with God and being God.
It is so natural to wonder why God doesn’t make it easier for us to avoid this pitfall. Why God doesn’t answer our most fervent prayers in a way that is direct and undeniable. Why God allows us and the people we love the most to struggle so much. Why God would set us loose in a garden where Satan slithers and schemes.
Certainly, these things are not best for us. Certainly, we can see a better way. So why can’t (or won’t) God?
If only God would reveal himself to us –answer that question, that prayer, send that sign, grace us with that peace that passeth all understanding in our most desperate and anxious times. If only God would clear up some of this confusion and make himself known. If only God would align God’s will with mine. If only.
Then all would be well, and belief would be made more possible. And with belief, would come trust. And with trust, peace.
But that isn’t the way of God; that is the way of us. The way of God is less about belief and far more about belonging.
God who formed us from the earth; God who walked alongside us in the garden; God who is with us still –this God that we all so desperately long for is a God who wants us not so much to believe in Him but to belong to Him. To abide in Him. To live in the grace of His eternal love.
We only need to venture a few more verses into the third chapter of Genesis to discover one of the most wonderful lines in Scripture.
Adam and Eve, having discovered their nakedness, hear God walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze, and they hide. They hide themselves from the one who knows them best and loves them most.
Discovering that they have hidden themselves and hearing that they did so because they were naked, God, our Father, cries: Who told you that you were naked?
Father Mike Schmitz observes that how we hear this line says a lot about our vision of God [2].
Who told you that you were naked!!!?
Do we hear anger? Condemnation? Punishment forthcoming?
Or do we hear sadness? Despair? The sound of a heart breaking?
Who told you that you were naked . . . ?
The love of a parent for a child can be and should be one of the most genuine and profound sources of unconditional love. Imperfect, sure. Unlike no other, certainly. Filled with the capacity for joy, and yet naturally marked by sorrow.
I am certain that every parent in this room has, or will one day soon, wonder either silently or aloud that very question of God in the garden.
Who told you that you were naked?
Who told you that you weren’t smart? That you weren’t good enough? Who told you that you weren’t the right size, shape, or sort? Who told you that you weren’t perfectly imperfect? Who told you this thing that has tainted your view of yourself –the yourself that I have known and loved since the moment you became you? Who told you this thing that now has you distrusting what I am telling you about yourself? Who told you?
As a parent, I hear in the words of God, the truest Parent, heartbreak.
Who told you that you were anything other than beloved?
We do our best to build gardens for our children; gardens where they can grow and flourish; protected, life-giving spaces where they may become the people that God has called them to be. We protect them there. Provide for them there. Love them fiercely there.
And yet at some point, slithering, scheming things will break through the defenses we have so carefully cultivated. Because our children are not captives and, for their own good, we must give them room to figure things out on their own. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less when pain comes, and, God knows (God knows!), we cannot protect them from the pain of this world.
I’d like to share with you a story that I heard many years ago. The story of Frank and his son [3].
Frank, a father in San Diego, knew that his son was somewhere in Colorado, homeless and addicted to heroin. Over the years, he and his wife had tried so many things to help their son. Had gone to great lengths to protect him and keep him close. Despite it all, he was now so far from them.
One day, as he worked in his own garden, an idea came to Frank. He was going to find his son and live alongside him on the street. He recounts:
“I love my son. And if I’m honest, I think his days are numbered. . . . The only thing I could think of was just go there, be with him and love him, show how much his family loves him” [4].
Frank arrives in Denver and finds his son.
He has no idea that I'm walking towards him [he writes]. I can see that he can't stand up without the support of a building. He would appear drunk to most people. To his dad, though, I know from past experience, sadly he's on heroin - heavy. I go up to him, and he starts to turn his back on me. I don't even care. I just grab him and squeeze him as hard as I can [5].
Frank spends a week being his son’s shadow. Wandering the streets in the day and sleeping on the bank of a river at night. His beard grows out and his clothes become stained. He eats brown bag lunches handed out by church volunteers in the park. He swats away rats at night. And he watches his son, the one he loves desperately, deteriorate right before his eyes. And he can do nothing, nothing but be there.
Finally, Frank does return home, but not before telling his son, “I’ll be with you, every minute of the day” [6]. I’ll be with you, he seems to say, so that you don’t forget that you are beloved.
And God said, who told you that you were naked?
This is a parent’s heart breaking. God’s heart breaking. This may be the first time, but it won’t be the last time that God’s heart is broken open for us. Because love involves sacrifice –anyone who loves knows this fact. Love involves sacrifice. And God’s immense love will ultimately beget God’s greatest sacrifice: Jesus the Christ, broken open for us. Jesus, the Christ, the second Adam, making all things new.
My friends, remember the garden. Remember the garden and know that we belong to God. We are beloved by God. And no matter how far we wander, how rough the road, how little we believe it, God will always be with us, every minute of the day. Trustworthy, tender, and true.
Amen.
*Image is William Blake’s “Angel of Divine Presence” in the Public Domain.
[1] “A Snake,” CVI, in Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson (Gramercy Books: New York, 1982), 175.
[2] “Day 2: The Fall of Adam and Eve,” The Bible in a Year: Podcast (Ascension Catholic Faith Formation, 2023), 2 Jan. 2022. This episode inspired much of this sermon, and I extend much gratitude to Father Mike Schmitz for his thoughtful and provoking Bible in a Year Podcast.
[3] Andrea Dukakis, “This Father Spent a Week on the Streets with Homeless Son. Now, You Can Hear Their Story,” Colorado Public Radio, 29 May 2018, https://www.cpr.org/show-segment/this-father-spent-a-week-on-the-streets-with-homeless-son-now-you-can-hear-their-story.
[4] Ibid.
[5] Andrea Dukakis, “A Father Feared for His Son’s Life, so He Joined Him on the Street,” 23 June 2018, Weekend Edition Saturday, National Public Radio (courtesy of WAMU), https://www.npr.org/2018/06/23/622795423/a-father-feared-for-his-sons-life-so-he-joined-him-on-the-street.
[6] Dukakis, “This Father Spent a Week.”
