Genesis 21: 8-21 (links validated 6/3/26a)

In 2009, the Bloomfield Hills Andover High School held our 40th Class Reunion. There were two remarkable things about this to me. One was that it started with a few of us from the old artsy, sarcastic, theatre group—notably both of us who were elected Class Cynic in 1969—reconnecting over Facebook. That spread until the former Cool Kids did what they always did and took it over, completely changing the event into an expensive dinner at a country club. We were 40 years, but the old dynamics still operated, and I ended up growling to Jacquelyn about it endlessly. The other thing that was remarkable was that we all had changed. My best friend came; he used to be a kind of round guy with his hair in a ponytail; I didn’t recognize the skinny, balding guy with the “Richard” name tag. I think that’s when it dawned on me that I had changed too; I wasn’t 140 lbs. anymore, and there wasn’t much left of my long hair either. Our lives unfold, we change, and yet some of the old stuff always remains...

A while ago I heard a reporter, a Middle East correspondent with decades of experience in Palestine and Israel, being interviewed on the news. He was responding to push back from a listener who didn’t think he gave enough background in a recent news report. You could almost hear the wry smile in the correspondent’s voice when he replied, “When it comes to Jews and Muslims, I don’t think we ever go back far enough. In fact, I’m often tempted to begin every news report by saying, “Abraham had two sons. One named Ishmael and the other one named Isaac…” A whole lot that we see in the news today has something to do with Abraham’s two sons. How do we read the story of Isaac’s chosenness as “good news” for us without making it bad news for anyone who isn’t us?

One day, in order to get a class discussion going, sociology professor Tony Campolo asked his students what some of the world's great religious leaders might have said about prostitution. The discussion was lively and intense. He was setting up the class to evangelize, and when he felt that the time was ripe, he asked what seemed to be the crucial question, "What do you suppose Jesus would have said to a prostitute?" He was all primed to point out to the class the compassion and understanding which Jesus had for the colorful women of the night. He was all set to do his best to make Jesus look greater than all the great religious leaders put together. Once again he asked, "What do you think Jesus would have said to a prostitute?" One of his students answered, "Jesus never met a prostitute." He jumped at the opening. He would show this guy a thing or two about Jesus and about the New Testament. "Yes he did," he responded. "I'll show you in my Bible where...." The young man interrupted him. "You didn't hear me Doctor. I said Jesus never met a prostitute."...

Kids Hope USA is an organization that creates partnerships that pair church members with local students who are at risk in supportive, mentoring relationships. Its mentors spend an hour a week doing things like reading, talking and listening to, as well as playing with a student whom most people overlook, except to scold him or her. On its website, www.kidshopeusa.org, the organization tells the story of eight year-old Sam. She felt invisible on the playground as well as in the classroom. Sam felt like she was being left behind, unseen and largely uncared for. When her Kids Hope mentor Kim entered her life, she called Sam by her name. She listened to Sam without interrupting or correcting her. Kim saw Sam in a way she thought no one had ever seen Sam before. Sam’s sense of invisibility slowly began to melt under the unstinting, loving gaze of Kim. For the first time, she felt important. After all, someone who knew her name made her feel special and valued.

("One of my colleagues has written, 'My ex-husband is remarried and he and his new wife have a young child. I have only met this child once and I didn't like him. A small, innocent child and I resented him. Why? I have a son with the same father. My son will get less attention, less money, less inheritance, less love because this other kid now gets some...")

Fred Craddock told a story of going back one summer to Gatlinburg, Tennessee, to take a short vacation with his wife. One night they found a quiet little restaurant where they looked forward to a private meal–just the two of them. While they were waiting for their meal they noticed a distinguished looking, white-haired man moving from table to table, visiting guests. Craddock whispered to his wife, "I hope he doesn’t come over here." He didn’t want the man to intrude on their privacy. But the man did come by his table. "Where you folks from?" he asked amicably. "Oklahoma." "Splendid state, I hear, although I’ve never been there. What do you do for a Living?" "I teach homiletics at the graduate seminary of Phillips University." "Oh, so you teach preachers, do you. Well, I’ve got a story I want to tell you." And with that he pulled up a chair and sat down at the table with Craddock and his wife. Dr. Craddock said he groaned inwardly: Oh no, here comes another preacher story. It seems everyone has one. The man stuck out his hand. "I’m Ben Hooper. I was born not far from here across the mountains. My mother wasn’t married when I was born so I had a hard time. When I started to school my classmates had a name for me, and it wasn’t a very nice name. I used to go off by myself at recess and during lunch-time because the taunts of my playmates cut so deeply. What was worse was going downtown on Saturday afternoon and feeling every eye burning a hole through you. They were all wondering just who my real father was. When I was about 12 years old a new preacher came to our church. I would always go in late and slip out early. But one day the preacher said the benediction so fast I got caught and had to walk out with the crowd. I could feel every eye in church on me. Just about the time I got to the door I felt a big hand on my shoulder. I looked up and the preacher was looking right at me. "Who are you, son? Whose boy are you?’ I felt the old weight come on me. It was like a big black cloud. Even the preacher was putting me down. But as he looked down at me, studying my face, he began to smile a big smile of recognition. "Wait a minute," he said, "I know who you are. I see the family resemblance. You are a son of God." With that he slapped me across the rump and said, "Boy you’ve got a great inheritance. Go and claim it." The old man looked across the table at Fred Craddock and said, "That was the most important single sentence ever said to me." With that he smiled, shook the hands of Craddock and his wife, and moved on to another table to greet old friends. Suddenly, Fred Craddock remembered. On two occasions the people of Tennessee had elected an illegitimate to be their governor. One of them was Ben Hooper.

The Western “The Big Valley” aired on ABC from 1965–1969. It was the story of the Barkley family, made up of matriarch Victoria and the children, now adults, she had with her late husband Tom: Jarrod, Nick, Audra, and the seldom-seen Eugene. Then there was Heath, whom the voice in one of the show’s trailers described as “the outsider.” He was Tom’s son but not Victoria’s. His struggle to be considered and included as a full member of the family created much dramatic tension. Ishmael was the outsider in Abraham’s family, which seems odd when you consider that he was Abraham’s first-born son in a time when the first-born son occupied an honored position

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As I wrote the above comments, I heard two songs in my heart, both by William Cowper: “O for a Closer Walk with God” and “God Moves in a Mysterious Way.” Those are two of the best loved old hymns of the church, but Cowper himself experienced little of the grace of which he wrote. Tormented that he had committed the unpardonable sin and hounded by rumors of an illicit affair, he had a nervous breakdown. He attempted suicide several times and spent time straight-jacketed in a mental institution for his own protection. For the last quarter of his life, he avoided church entirely. What are we to make of such a man? Was he a hypocrite, a fake, perhaps an Ishmael? Or was he a struggling believer caught in the furious opposites of life, who was able to express his faith only in his music. In one of his other hymns, one spurned by many church-goers because of its emphasis on the blood of Christ, we hear his testimony. After beginning with “there is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Immanuel’s veins,” it sings “redeeming love has been my theme and shall be ‘til I die.” That redeeming love was the theme of Abraham’s life, the straight strong line that ran through the best and worst of times.