Gen. 12:1-4a; John 3:1-17

“The LORD said to Abram,” the 12^th chapter of Genesis begins, “Go,” and we are told, “So Abram went.” Abram had been taken from Ur by his father, Terach – we’re not told why – in order to go to the land of Canaan. But, en route, they settled in Haran, where they lived until Terach died. Ur, you may have learned in recent years (or not), is located in the regions of Mesopotamia, as was Haran. Whatever Tereach’s motivation for leaving Ur (which is located in modern day Iraq) he never made it out of Mesopotamia (again, located in modern day Iraq). It’s interesting to note that the name, Terach, in the Hebrew, means, “delay.” Again, we are not told what the cause of the delay was – but the subtleties of our text make it clear that Terach “delayed” to move to Canaan after setting out with his family.

After the death of Terach – or we could say, after the death of delay, “The LORD said to Abram, ‘Go…’ and Abram went.” Yet, does our text give us any clues as to what brought about the delay – something we can learn from and apply in our own lives that we might be blessed, and be a blessing? “The LORD said to Abram, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.’” In other words, Abram, leave everything familiar, in order to find a land that is unfamiliar; leave what you have, in order to find what you don’t yet have.

Delay, says Webster – is an unexpected lapse of time or lateness; to delay is to cause to be late, to hinder the progress of, to postpone, or to fail to make haste. Aeschylus, the Greek poet and dramatist, from the 6^th century, B.C.E., once said, “When a man’s willing and eager, God joins in.”[1] Delay, then, it may be said, results from a lack of willingness and eagerness.

In every human institution, there are dynamics that lend themselves to a kind of delay that results from a lack of willingness and eagerness. The first is the prospect of change – institutions tend to forget what business they’re in and how they got there, and start thinking about how to stay wherever it is and however it is they are. The second is the prospect of risk – we know what we have now, but we can’t know what we might have then. Abram was asked of God both to embrace change and to accept risk and to Abram, God promised: “I will bless you…so that you will be a blessing.”

John’s gospel is the favorite of many people. It is represented by the face of the eagle, because it soars in spirituality almost devoid of earthiness. Matthew is represented by an angel – yet, angels who talk with shepherds, and visit stables (there’s none of that in John). Mark, the Lion, the power of God invested in the man, Jesus, and Luke, the ox – the suffering servant.

John’s great theme is light and darkness. Only in John would you hear the words, you’re either with me, or against me. Only in John are we told that the Jews who resist Jesus are “children of the devil.” Isn’t it strange that the gospel we most often relate to the divine nature of God’s Spirit and Christ’s divinity should be the meanest of the four? The same gospel in which we hear “For God so loved the world, God sent God’s only Son…” we hear a scathing assault against those who have chosen to hold on to their traditions and stories and to reject the change and risk associated with believing in Jesus Christ.

There is only light, and darkness, without gray, in the Gospel of John. In some ways, it’s like beholding the power of the atom and realizing nothing could exist without its tiny bonds, while at the same time noting everything is at risk should the center fail to hold and be split. John is both gracious and dangerous – belying our tendency to think of God’s Spirit as only soft, gentle, caressing, loving – John is a hammer of love that we likely would reject if we ever got the inkling he was speaking about us.

Nicodemus comes to Jesus in John’s gospel “at night.” Coincidence? No. Nicodemus is a teacher who is in the dark. Jesus says, “…no one can see the Realm of God without being born from above…of water and spirit,” (Greek) spirit, pneuma – the movement of the wind.

It’s no accident that water and wind would be utilized to speak of God’s entrance into the lives of humanity. In geography, what are the two greatest change agents on the face of the planet? They are water, and wind – they transform entire continents, the face of the oceans – they can be gentle as a zephyr or as raging as a tsunami. They accept no delay – they move where they will. We erect walls against them, and roofs – we insulate our lives against the force of their power. And yet, Jesus says (according to John), unless we are born of them, we cannot see or enter God’s Realm.

Would you describe your life as being born of water and wind – would you describe your life as being an agent of change? Would you describe your life, as being a force in the hand of God that moves where God wills? Or, would you describe your life as settled in Haran (the mountain), with Terach (delay)? I find that imagery fascinating – a mountain of delay, being the mass of humanity resisting the Realm of God in order to keep what it has and stand by what it knows, rather than to embrace the challenge and the risk of being born as the very water and the very wind that will someday turn that mountain into dust. We have forgotten the name of Terach, the one who went, at first, but then delayed. We remember the name Abram, exalted father – the one who went, when God said ‘Go…’ the one who risked God’s blessing, becoming as water and as wind, in order to become a blessing.