Daddy, Tell Me a Story Deuteronomy 26:4-10
“That bass must have weighed 30 pounds,” said the old fisherman talking about a recent trip on the river. “I fought upwards of three hours to bring him into the boat.”
His buddy interrupted the story and scoffed, “I saw the picture you took of that fish. You’re lucky if it even weighed 10 pounds.”
The old fisherman replied, “Well, a fish can lose an awful lot of weight during three hours of fighting!”
Who doesn’t like a good story even the kind that fishermen tell? I know that when I first sat before the Board of Ordained Ministry, the main criticism of my sermon was that I needed to include more stories. Today, I understand the power of story; I would hate to listen to a sermon that didn’t have a single good story. Stories bring the word alive!
Scientist Gregory Bateson wrote a book titled Mind in Nature. In it he tells a revealing story. He says that scientists recently found a way to design a software program that makes computers function more like the human mind.
After installing the software, the programmers typed in this question, “How does the human mind work?”
The computer replied, “Well, let me tell you a story . . .’’
In Isak Dinesen’s words, “To be a person is to have a story to tell.”
Communication specialist Peg Neuhauser puts it like this, “Storytelling is the single most powerful form of human communication. It is the primary tool that human beings use to pass on their cultures. We can use it to inspire, teach, comfort, and entertain. Or we can use it to destroy, stir up hate, and demoralize.
I don’t know about worrying, but we all know that good stories have the power to make us laugh and cry . . . and to think . . . and to believe. And, yes, if it’s a story about a deep problem we have, perhaps, even to worry.
We all know that the Hebrews were wonderful story-tellers. They still are. Notice how many of our great comedians and television writers and novelists are Jewish. It is part and parcel of their culture. Notice how much of the Bible is story. We sing, “Tell me the stories of Jesus, I love to hear . . .” But, before those life-changing stories of Jesus, there were the stories of David and Abraham and Jacob and Joseph and Moses and Joshua. The Bible is crammed through with stories. God knows that telling stories is the easiest way to communicate with human beings.
Today’s lesson from Deuteronomy tells one of history’s most important stories. Deuteronomy was written as Moses’ final address to the people of Israel. Soon they would be entering the Promised Land. Moses, unfortunately, would not be with them. Still, he had a vision of their future - home a land flowing with milk and honey.
He begins the twenty-sixth chapter like this: “When you have entered the land the Lord your God is giving you as an inheritance and have taken possession of it and settled in it, take some of the first-fruits of all that you produce from the soil of the land the Lord your God is giving you and put them in a basket. Then go to the place the Lord your God will choose as a dwelling for his Name and say to the priest in office at the time, ‘I declare today to the Lord your God that I have come to the land the Lord swore to our forefathers to give us.’ The priest shall take the basket from your hands and set it down in front of the altar of the Lord your God . . .”
There are a couple of interesting items that strike me as I read the first few verses of this chapter. The first thing the people are to do when they come into the Promised Land is to make an offering of thanksgiving to God. That’s important. Our emphasis today is not on tithing or on thanksgiving, though that is certainly an appropriate way to start the season of Lent. Some people think of the offering in a worship service as simply the church’s way of paying its bills. Obviously we would not be able to pay our bills if you did not give, but even if we developed a system of direct deposit where everybody in the church could have their banks electronically send in their tithe which, we would not be able to remove the offering from the worship service. One of the primary reasons for congregational worship is to give us the opportunity and the privilege of presenting our offerings to God. That’s who we are and what we do as a people. We present our offerings to God in thanksgiving.
There’s a second thing that pops out at me in this passage. Notice these words about how the people are to make their offering: “Then go to the place the Lord your God will choose as a dwelling for his Name and say to the priest in office at the time . . .” In other words, it doesn’t matter who the priest is.
You may have a hard time believing this, but I have heard of church squabbles in which people begin withholding their offerings because they don’t like the pastor. Friends, biblically that is obscene. We don’t make an offering to a particular priest, we make our offering to God. We make our offering to God to acknowledge what God has done for us. We worship a great God. It makes no difference who the pastor is or the priest. You’re not here to worship the pastor. We’re all here to worship God. We have a great God who is worthy of our praise.
Some of you know the story of Gladys Aylward. Gladys was a missionary to China whose story is told in the book The Small Woman by Alan Burgess, published in 1957. In 1958, this book was made into the Hollywood film The Inn of the Sixth Happiness, starring Ingrid Bergman.
Gladys Aylward was an amazing woman. She was born into a working-class family in London in 1902 and was forced into domestic service at an early age. Her ambition in life was to be a missionary. When she was turned down by the China Inland Mission because her academic background was inadequate, she went ahead and spent her own money all her life savings on a passage to Yangcheng, China where she began a lifetime of service to the Chinese people. She was much respected there. She is the one who unbound the feet of so many Chinese girls, for those who remember the story.
In 1938 Gladys was forced to flee when the Japanese invaded Yangcheng. But she could not leave her work behind. With only one assistant, she led ninety-four orphans over the mountains to safety. We are told there was a point in that escape when Gladys grew greatly discouraged. A 13-year-old girl in the group reminded her of the story of Moses and the Israelites crossing the Red Sea. “But I am not Moses,” Gladys cried in desperation. “Of course you aren’t,” the girl said, “but Jehovah is still God.”
Friends, you know that I am not Moses. No pastor can ever be Moses or Simon Peter or St. Paul. But God will still be God and we come to worship to present ourselves and all we have to God, not to a mere mortal.
Those two thing pop out at me in this chapter: When the people enter the Promised Land, they are to set up an altar and they are to give their offering to the priest in office at the time, whoever that priest may be.
Then, they are to tell a story before God. And here is that story: “My father was a wandering Aramean, and he went down into Egypt with a few people and lived there and became a great nation, powerful and numerous. But the Egyptians mistreated us and made us suffer, putting us to hard labor. Then we cried out to the Lord, the God of our fathers, and the Lord heard our voice and saw our misery, toil and oppression. So the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with great terror and with miraculous signs and wonders. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey; and now I bring the first-fruits of the soil that you, O Lord, have given me.” They are to tell this story a story that is critical to their existence as a people. Wherever a group of Jews shall gather on this planet, this story will be told.
The wandering Aramean refers to Abraham and his descendants who were nomads. They moved around the desert. They were not fixed to a land. The only constant in their lives was a covenant that God established with Abraham. This covenant sustained them in the time of Joseph, who was sold into slavery in Egypt. He later brought his brothers and their families into Egypt as well. They were no longer nomads. They were residents of a country, though a country that did not recognize their God.
At first, the children of Israel prospered. However, over the generations the Egyptians forgot Joseph and his descendants became slaves. Not only that but their Egyptian masters mistreated them and made them suffer, putting them to hard labor. The people cried out to the Lord, the God who had established the covenant with Abraham, and the Lord heard their voice and saw their misery, toil and oppression. So the Lord brought them out of Egypt, with great terror and with miraculous signs and wonders. He brought them to a land flowing with milk and honey . . .
This is the story they were to tell as they presented their offering. God had delivered them and brought them into a land which they would make their home. They were to tell the story and then present an offering.
If we were to follow the same practice each time we presented an offering, we would tell the story of a people who were once slaves to sin and to death. But a man named Jesus came down from heaven to live among them, to give his life in their behalf. This also is a story of deliverance of an exodus, if you will. It is our story. The story of every man, woman and young person in this room.
This is to say that Christian faith is not a philosophy, but a story. Please let me explain what I mean.
There have been many great philosophers, people who have studied about life and have come to understand many important truths about life. Socrates was a philosopher. Buddha was a philosopher. Emerson was a philosopher. I suppose Dr. Phil is a philosopher of sorts. And we can learn from these insightful individuals. But Christian faith is not a philosophy. Christianity is based on a historical event the Word of God became flesh and dwelled among us. God revealed Himself in Jesus Christ. When we recite our creed, we tell a story, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, the Maker of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord: Who was conceived by the Holy [Ghost], born of the virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead, and buried. The third day He arose again from the dead; He ascended into heaven, and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty; from thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead. I believe in the Holy [Ghost]; the holy catholic church; the communion of saints; the forgiveness of sins; the resurrection of the body; and the life everlasting.” These are not principles about life great minds have discerned. These are historical truths that have been revealed. Christian faith is not a philosophy, it is a story.
That story has been constant ever since the creation of the world; it is the story of God’s love for fallen humanity. God made a covenant with Noah and then with Abraham and with the children of Israel. And God sealed that covenant with the cross of Calvary. God loves human beings. God loves you and me. God loves every person on this earth. In Max Lucado’s famous words, “If God had a refrigerator, your picture would be on it.” That’s not something Lucado came up with out of thin air. That is what was revealed to him through a man hanging on a tree on Golgotha two thousand years ago.
In one of his books, Robert Farrar Capon says that when human beings try to describe God we are like a bunch of oysters trying to describe a ballerina. We simply do not have the equipment to understand something so utterly beyond us.
The best we can do is point a trembling finger toward Jesus and declare, “If you want to know what God is like, look at this man. Look at how he lived and how he died. This is what God is like.” We know what God is like through the story of Jesus.
Pastor Clive Calver’s mother lived in London, England. His dad died in 1980. So, Clive and his wife Ruth went to his mother and said, “Mum, would you like to come and live with us?” His mum was a teacher of business skills in London. She only had one child, Clive, and she loved her peace and quiet. She loved her profession. She looked at her son, daughter-in-law, three screaming grandchildren and the likelihood of more, and she smiled weakly and said, “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll manage.” And she did.
She looked after herself well and everything went well until the day they found she had Alzheimer’s. Alzheimer’s is a terrible disease as many of you know. First, you get confused. Then you start to lose your judgment. Then you lose your identity and the identity of others. Clive’s mum used to think he was a pink elephant. She couldn’t remember words any more. They were told that they couldn’t look after his mum because she might be violent to the children, so they put her in a special home for Alzheimer’s victims. Either Ruth or Clive would go and visit his mum every week.
One week Clive was away in the north of England speaking and so Ruth went. His mum was crying, so Ruth went to one of the staff and said, “Why is my mother-in-law crying?” They said, “Oh, Flora does sometimes. She doesn’t know who she is or where she is, but we cheer her up. We tell her dirty jokes and she laughs.”
Clive Calver says, “Now that’s not the kind of thing that my mother would normally do,” so Ruth was very concerned. She persuaded her mother-in-law to go to the lovely little private room she had. It took about fifteen minutes to get her the twenty yards to her room, but when Ruth got her there she said to Clive’s mum, “Would you like me to pray for you?” There was no way that Clive’s mum could understand, but somehow something clicked for her and she said, “Yes.” And Ruth prayed for her mother-in-law. But then Ruth forgot where she was and said, “Mum, would you like to pray?” Clive’s mum couldn’t say anything coherent, but somehow a window came just for a moment and here is what his mother prayed. It was the last coherent thing she said in her life. She said, “Dear Lord, I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I am and I don’t know where I am, but please love me. Dear Lord, I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I am and I don’t know where I am, but please love me.” (4)
There’s not a philosopher on earth who could comfort Clive’s mum at a time like that. But on a lonely hill overlooking Jerusalem hangs a man on a cross who says to his mum, “See how much I love you.” Christian faith isn’t a philosophy; it is our response to a historical event, the Christ event. The message of that event has been constant through the ages; it is the story of God’s love for fallen humanity. “I love to tell the story, ’twill be my theme in glory, to tell the old, old story of Jesus and his love.”
