“When Faith is Costly” [Following God in Real Life Summer Series #4] - Fr. Pete's Sermon for June 28th, the Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

Genesis 22:1-14

Last Sunday I talked about the Kona Low Storms. Now we’re hearing about dangerous El Nino weather coming later this year. Seems like there are plenty disasters to go around!

As you well know, the Lahaina fire happened on Maui 3 years ago this August, just half a year before Dan and I moved here—we watched news reports about the devastation and prayed from afar.

It was hard for all of us to see the images that almost did not seem real. Front Street reduced to ash. The entire town gone. Families standing in silence where homes and businesses and memories had once been.

Heartbreaking! And for many people, the deepest shock was not only the loss of buildings, but the loss of what those places meant. History. Identity. Belonging.

Among the buildings destroyed, as you know, was Holy Innocents, the beloved Episcopal parish that had stood in Lahaina for generations. Its beautiful mural of the Madonna and Child was lost in the flames. We have a copy of it over on the St. Francis Garden side.

In the months afterward, Holy Innocents members began gathering again in borrowed worship spaces, carrying bells and crosses and fragments of memory with them. Some parishioners had lost nearly everything. Still they came together to pray, to sing, to begin again.

I remember reading one account in the Diocesan newsletter from a member of the congregation who said that, after the fire, people were simply trying to restore "homes and hearts."

Restoring homes and hearts. Because when disaster strikes, what hurts most is not only what we lose, but what those losses represent. A home represents security, memories, family, and hopes for the future. When something precious is suddenly lost like that, it can feel as though the ground beneath us has fallen away.

And that brings us closer to the emotional world of today's reading in Genesis. Because Isaac is more than Abraham's son. Isaac represents God's promise, Abraham's future, and everything he holds dear.

Beloved, this is one of the most difficult stories in all Scripture: The passage starts by saying “God tested Abraham”! I don’t know about you, but I don’t like being tested! Abraham climbs a mountain with the son he loves, the son through whom all of God's promises were supposed to come, in order to sacrifice him.

If this story troubles you, that’s probably a sign you are hearing it right. Because once again, we read a story that is not comfortable.

Over these summer weeks, we’re traveling together through Genesis on our “Summer Sermon Road Trip: Following God in Real Life.”

In the first week, Abraham was called into the unknown. Then Sarah laughed because the promise seemed impossible. Last week, Hagar discovered that even in the wilderness, God still sees and hears us.

And now this week, the journey reaches its most painful point. Because sometimes faith becomes costly. Sometimes life leads us into places we never would have chosen. Just as it did in Lahaina.

The story begins almost gently. God says: “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love…” The tenderness of that phrase almost makes it harder to hear what follows.

But Abraham starts off for Moriah. And the text seems very straight-forward. There’s no discussion, no explanation. Just the long silence of the journey. Which, honestly, feels real. Because when people go through deep grief or fear or confusion, there’s often a kind of silence around it. Words seem inadequate. You just keep walking because there’s nothing else to do.

I imagine many survivors in Lahaina experienced something like that in the days afterward. Not fully understanding what had happened yet. Carrying shock and heartbreak and exhaustion all at once. Trying to move forward one step at a time because the future itself had suddenly become unrecognizable. That’s partly why this Genesis story is so enduring. It speaks honestly about moments when life no longer makes sense. Moments when what is happening seems completely at odds with what we thought God had promised. It’s a feeling that seems to echo through these stories
in Genesis, doesn’t it?

Many of us know something about this feeling. A future changes. A prayer remains unanswered. A family suffers. A tragedy occurs that no theology can neatly explain. And suddenly the road ahead looks very different than the one we thought we were traveling.

Now before we go further, I think it’s important to say clearly what this story is not saying. This is not permission for violence in God’s name. This is not a model for harming children. This is not a lesson that suffering itself pleases God. In fact, one of the central points of the story is that God stops the sacrifice.

You see, Abraham lived in a world where surrounding cultures sacrificed children. But at the decisive moment, God says: “No.” The knife is lowered. The boy lives. A ram is provided instead. God is making his will clear; you are to be different than the rest of the world.

So the story moves away from death and toward mercy. But it still leaves us wrestling. Why would Abraham think this was what God wanted? Why does God sometimes seem so bewildering? Why does faith sometimes lead us through painful territory? Those are real questions. And Scripture does not pretend otherwise.

What strikes me most in this story is that Abraham walks up the mountain carrying trust and confusion at the same time. We often imagine biblical faith as unwavering certainty. But most mature faith is not certainty. It is continuing the relationship with God even when we do not fully understand.

That may be one of the hardest spiritual lessons of all. Because we want explanations. We want clarity. We want assurance that everything will make sense beforehand. But often faith looks more like Abraham walking the road without knowing how the story will end.

There is a heartbreaking moment when Isaac asks: “Father?” And Abraham replies: “Here I am.” Then Isaac says: “The fire and the wood are here… but where is the lamb?” And Abraham answers: “God will provide.”

At that moment, Abraham himself cannot yet see how true those words will become. But eventually, on that mountain, provision appears.

A ram caught in a thicket. And Abraham names the place “The Lord will provide.” Not before the journey. Afterward. Which is so often how life works.

We rarely see grace clearly ahead of time. Usually we recognize it looking backward. Looking back, we realize: Oh! There were people who carried us. There was strength we didn’t know we had. There were moments of mercy hidden inside terrible seasons. There was enough grace for the next step. Not always all at once. But enough.

I think that’s part of what the people of Lahaina continue to teach the rest of us. After unimaginable loss, communities still gather. Worship still happens. Meals are shared. People continue helping one another restore homes and hearts.

Not because the suffering was good. Not because the grief has disappeared. But because even in devastating loss, human beings keep discovering that they are not abandoned. Banyan trees regrow.

Perhaps this is the deepest truth inside this difficult story, a truth we hear repeatedly in Genesis: Not that God explains everything. Not that suffering suddenly becomes easy. But that mercy has the final word. That even on hard roads, God walks with us.

As we continue this summer journey together, the stories ahead are still going to be messy. Which is good news, really. Because the Bible is not a book about perfect people who always understand what God is doing.

It is the story of ordinary human beings learning, slowly and imperfectly, that God remains faithful even on the hardest roads.

And if your road feels steep… If life feels uncertain… If faith itself feels costly…
               Keep walking. Not because you understand everything.
               But because somewhere along the journey,
               often when we least expect it--
               God provides. Amen.