I wonder if you have ever noticed that some questions

sound more like dares. Here’s an example. Do you really

believe that God is in control? If so, why this mess?

I confess I wasn’t prepared for that one. Not before 8

AM, in Starbucks, from a stranger, when my air pods

were giving a clear signal that I was not available for

any conversation, much less a theological debate. And

yet, I probably should have anticipated it. After all, there

was a Bible on the table in front of me, right next to it

Marilynne Robinson’s book Reading Genesis.

The very first line of her book reads, “The Bible is a

theodicy, a meditation on the problem of evil. This

being true, it must take account of things as they are.

It must acknowledge in a meaningful way the darkest

aspects of the reality we experience, and it must

reconcile them with the goodness of God.” In other

words, the question of God’s control is crucial to the

subject of our sermon series.

And that same question runs like a vein through the

story of Joseph. It’s the longest and most dramatic

narrative in Genesis. Its arc stretches across fourteen

long chapters and more than a century of elapsed time.

From birth to betrayal. From slavery to sovereignty.

From Promised Land to Egyptian Empire, we track the

life of this complex man and the complicated family to

which he belongs.

Now Israel loved Joseph more than any other of his

children. Uh oh. Here we go again. Parental favoritism is

nothing new to the stories of Genesis. Remember, Jacob

himself was a favorite. And so, he proudly parades his

preference for Joseph right in front of his brothers.

When we meet Joseph, 17 years old, he is, in Robinson’s

words, “young, bright, and self-infatuated, blind or

indifferent to the resentment that is already stirring

around him…” With pride, Joseph recounts a pair of

dreams he had in which his brothers (we assume)

symbolically bow down to him. Friends, this is not a

method for endearing yourself to your older siblings.

It is, however, a very good way to stoke the flames of

their resentment.

This is exactly what happens, of course. They conspire

against him. They first plan to kill him and finally settle

on a deep pit, where they toss him in with no water. It

is the desert after all. Then they sit to enjoy their lunch,

presumably in full sight of their brother, now deep in a pit.

Ultimately, Joseph’s life is spared by the value he holds to

some traveling traders. For twenty pieces of silver, they

are rid of their brother for good. No more parades. Those

dreams will never become reality. Or so they assume.

But Genesis gives us a tasty bit of foreshadowing when

the brothers say to one another, “We shall see what will

become of his dreams.” And so, they shall.

Joseph and his brothers belong to one human family

whose story is the story of the whole human family. This

family is chosen by God, not for its particular holiness,

but as representatives of universal themes that play out

differently in each context. Perhaps you remember the

opening line of Tolstoy’s novel Anna Karenina: “Happy

families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy

in its own way.” So it is with the family whose narrative

fills the pages of Genesis. And I think we can take some

comfort in their selection. Despite the filtered pictures

and carefully curated posts that fill our social media

feeds, we know the truth. Families are messy. Families

are complicated. Relationships are difficult and often

painful. We are most capable of wounding and receiving

wounds from those who are closest to us.

We know it by experience and by intuition—human

beings tend to make a mess of everything, especially

the relationships that are most meant to sustain and

nourish us. How often we find ourselves immediately

regretting a harsh word spoken to one we love. How

many opportunities for deeper connection we forfeit by

choosing selfish pride, or cold detachment, or grudges

delicately nursed, sometimes for decades. The gift of

Gensis is that it is not disconnected from this reality.

Quite the contrary. And so, we in the Church should be

very careful not to turn scripture into a kind of sacred,

sanitized story of saints unsullied by sin. The Bible will

not permit this kind of reading. Marilynne Robinson

described it as the “special genius” of scripture that it

sees no one as simple. This is certainly true of Joseph

and his brothers. We are meant to see in them a kind

of mirror, a mirror of our own brokenness and our

capacities for good. More on that next Sunday.

It may have occurred to some of you careful listeners

that there is one notable absence from this morning’s

scripture readings, from the whole of Genesis 37.

God. The God whose voice and presence have been

ubiquitous in the stories of Joseph’s ancestors. We find

God all over the stories of Abraham, and Isaac, and

Jacob. But God is absent from Genesis 37.

Why is the voice of God never heard in this troubling

story of human interactions? How can there be no

divine intervention on Joseph’s behalf? Where is God

in this story? Do you believe that God is in control? If so,

then why this mess?

Perhaps you have asked that very question as you

navigate the choppy waters of relationships. Maybe

you have lamented the absence of God in a moment of

profound suffering or a season of deep grief. Or you’ve

questioned how God could possibly allow evil to endure

and the innocent to bear the brunt of abuse at the hands

of the powerful. You may feel that way today.

In the story of Joseph, and in our own stories as well,

we must occasionally read between the lines if we are

to find God. In Genesis, as we’ve seen time and again,

humankind is never without agency or choice. Humans

have freedom. We have autonomy. And the effects of

this autonomy often take the form of destruction and

demonization. We are capable of such catastrophe.

Brothers, plotting to kill their own kin. And yet, this is

not the whole story. We shall see what will become

of Joseph’s dreams, because the dreams of brothers

bowing down are not the only ones Joseph will have.

Dreams are the constant of Joseph’s life. Though hidden

and invisible, the dream is the work of God on which

all will depend. You could say the dream sets its own

course. And in the end, the dream prevails.

Through his brothers’ deplorable and deceitful action,

Joseph finds himself quite unexpectedly in Egypt, where

the dream lives on. And many years later, as second in

command to Pharaoh himself, Joseph’s dreams save this

family from starvation in the land of promise.

Like Jacob in his sackcloth of grief for a lost son, like

brothers blinded by jealousy and driven first by rage

and then regret, like Joseph whose journey takes

him from depths to heights by fantastic means, we

may think we know how our story ends. We may be

convinced that all is lost, that we’ve fallen too far, that

the forces of light and goodness are defeated. And if

you are tempted to believe this—please hear me now.

This is not the end. Growing seeds do not make much

noise. I remember my mentor’s words to me in a time of

deep fear and doubt in my own life. “Chris, you cannot

prove the promises of God in advance, but if you live

them, they’re true every time.”

The dream. The dream sets its own course. The dream

lives on.

The choice available to us, every day in countless ways,

is this: where will we place our attention, and where will

we devote our energy? Will we be captive, victim to the

endless cycle of rage and retribution? Or will we look for

signs of light and life and use our agency, our energy, to

extend and expand them?

Early this week, I had the opportunity to spend about 72

hours at Ghost Ranch, a Presbyterian retreat center in

northern New Mexico. I was there with a group of twelve

pastors from all over the country for a time of reflection

and prayer. We stepped away from the rushing current

of our lives, and we did it together because it’s easier

that way. Ghost Ranch is the perfect place to retreat.

For some reason, it felt natural in that place to go hours

without checking the news or reading messages.

(Apologies for all your emails still waiting for my replies!)

The high desert is a testament to the grandeur and

beauty of God, as well as the astounding resilience of

creation. That place is part of a long story. Mesas that

were home to dinosaurs in the late Triassic Period over

200 million years ago. Trees whose sturdy roots have

held through hundreds of years of wind and unrelenting

sun. Every direction I turned, there was testimony to a

God who plays the long game. Witness to the truth that

even the desert is home to growing things.

Of course, while we were gone, the world kept turning.

Horrific acts of violence continued unabated. The most

vulnerable among us—sick babies, hungry children,

impoverished elders, those without home or homeland—

were caught in the crosshairs. Yes, we stepped away,

but the endless cycle of chaos and wrath, rage and

reaction, rolled on. On the plane ride home, I read the

words of grief-stricken family members whose loved

ones did not make it home.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, a wise teacher said,

“Our purpose here is to transform people so that they

can transform their communities when they return.”

It was a mission statement, a reminder that there is

work. There is work that is ours to do. Right in front of

us. Friends, the providence of God does not absolve

us—it emboldens us. The God who fills the arroyos with

lifegiving water and rescues Joseph from the waterless

pit will surely make a way for us in the wilderness.

And so, we come finally to the answer I wish I’d given in

Starbucks last week, though I imagine my interlocutor

would have been unsatisfied.

The answer is yes. Yes, I believe that God is in control.

Not as a puppeteer, but as author of a story still

unfolding. Yes. Yes, I believe that God’s ultimate vision

is one of mercy and grace, of compassion and justice.

Yes, I believe that the promised day will come. And I

also believe that God’s mercy manifests in restraint that

makes space for human beauty and compassion but

does not conceal our brokenness.

God leaves work for us to do.

As it is in Joseph’s story, so it is in ours as well. God’s

dream sets the course. Despite detour, delay, and even

despair, we must find the courage to trust and the faith

to follow this dream. Amen.