Sermon:
September 27, 1998

Scripture:
Judges 11:1-6
Judges 11:30-35

Let's just start where the narrative starts. No clever introduction. No historical perspective. No funny story to coax a laugh from your lips while bribing your brain into paying attention. Let's dive right into the text ... cold turkey.

Now Jephthah, the Gileadite, was a mighty warrior. But he was the son of a harlot.

Wow! What a load of baggage to unpack ... from such a small suitcase of words. Obviously, the text is talking about a heroic figure of sorts ("mighty warrior"), but one who springs from suspicious origins. Jephthah's daddy was a man named Gilead. And Gilead was a married man with a wandering eye. So when his eye landed elsewhere, the other parts of him followed. Which is how it came to pass that Gilead embraced (and, subsequently, impregnated) a prostitute.

But Gilead was better than your average "john," meaning that he took responsibility for his actions and took the baby into his home. He named him Jephthah and treated him as the sons who were born to his wife. Who also deserves some credit ... Gilead's wife, I mean. How many women do you know who would do that ... or who have done that? I know one or two. But not many. I suppose that every day of their married life, Jephthah was a reminder of Gilead's infidelity. But they dealt with it ... lived with it ... overcame it. Give them credit for marital work well done.

But give less credit to their other sons ... those born to the family in the more traditional way. They were full brothers. Jephthah was a half brother. And they never let him forget it. One wonders when they found out ... how they found out ... and how things changed, once they found out. But they did find out. And things did change. In fact, the day came when they drove their half brother out of the house, saying: "You shall not inherit anything in our father's house, for you are the son of another woman." Funny, isn't it, how just about the time somebody says, "It's not the money, but the principle of the thing," you know ... just know ... that it's the money.

So Jephthah split and settled in the land of Tob. But he was tough. And resilient. When your brothers don't like you, you develop such characteristics. Either that, or you don't survive. But Jephthah survived. Even thrived. Before long, he had gathered a group of men around him. One version of the Bible calls them "worthless fellows." Today's version calls them "outlaws." But what they really became, over time, was a ruthless (albeit effective) band of raiders or soldiers of fortune.

Which provided the occasion for one of life's ironic twists. Suddenly Israel found itself at war with a neighboring nation (the Ammonites). And the soldiers of Israel were faring poorly, given their lack of a courageous and charismatic leader. So they sent a delegation to Jephthah saying: "Bring your group of merry men and lead our forces." Upon hearing this, Jephthah reminded them that he had once been sent packing by the very people who were now giving him some come-and-save-us glances. But this wasn't the first time in biblical history that the kicked-out brother became the sought-out brother. Remember Joseph?

So with all the face cards suddenly in his hand, Jephthah struck a deal. Yes, he would join them. Yes, he would lead them. But, in the event that he should be successful, he expected to be made "head over the people." Which offer they accepted. I mean, what else could they do?

Well, Jephthah tried to avoid a fight. He arranged a series of conferences with the Ammonites in an attempt to settle things amicably. But when negotiations broke down ... or broke off ... there was no choice but to do battle. As his troops sharpened their swords and cleaned their combat boots, Jephthah slipped away to make a vow before God, saying: "If you will give the Ammonites into my hand, then whoever is the first to come out of my door when I return victorious ... " (we need to stop momentarily and sing a few bars of "When Jephthah comes marching home again, hurrah, hurrah") ... "that one shall be offered up by me as a burnt offering."

Which wasn't a very pretty contract, even though it was a contract made with God. Who knows? Maybe Jephthah figured he'd lose. Or, in the event of a victory, maybe he figured his dog would be the first through the door. Or his servant. Which, of course, wasn't what happened.

He didn't lose. He did come home. And the first person out the door (rushing to greet him with timbrels and dance) was not his dog, but his daughter ... his beautiful daughter ... his adoring daughter ... his virginal daughter ... his only daughter ... who (more than anybody else) was the one person who possessed the capacity to "light up his life." And as she ran from the door to her daddy, it was as if the heavens fell. Whereupon Jephthah tore off his clothes, fell to his knees, and wept: "Alas, my daughter, you have brought me very low. You have become the cause of a great trouble to me. For I have opened my mouth to the Lord and I cannot take back my vow."

And he didn't ... take back his vow, that is. He burned her up. And `twas said that because of his act, the daughters of Israel went forth, four days out of every year, to lament her passing.

That's not a very pretty story. Neither does it come to a very pretty end. Although I suppose that here and there, in some of the darker corners of Christendom, Jephthah's faithful follow-through is preached in laudatory prose (I mean, the man kept his vow). But you would not expect such from me. Neither would I offer it. So how shall we treat this story?

Well, we could start, historically, with a word about child sacrifice. Which Israel abhorred. But which Israel occasionally practiced. I could take you to a place, just south of the Jerusalem city wall, called the Valley of Hinnom ... the same valley referenced by the prophet Jeremiah, when he wrote:

For the sons of Judah have done evil in my sight, says the Lord. They have set their abominations in the house which is called by my name to defile it. And they have built the high place of Topheth (which is in the Valley of Hinnom) to burn their sons and daughters in the fire ... which I did not command, nor did it come into my mind. (Jeremiah 7:30-34)

And while we don't know much about this altar ... or much about this practice ... it was sufficiently troubling in Jeremiah's time, so as to occasion four additional diatribes against the abominations performed there (see Jeremiah 16:9, 19:6-7, 25:10, and 32:34-35). And Jeremiah was not alone, given that similar prohibitions against child sacrifice can be found in the books of Leviticus, Deuteronomy, II Kings, Psalms and Ezekiel. So why would all those people write about it, if somebody wasn't doing it?

Actually, this was a practice that was common ... not to the Jews, but to their neighbors. But sometimes we borrow from our neighbors much more than a cup of sugar or a set of socket wrenches. We also borrow some very screwy ideas, including (from to time) some very screwy religious ideas. I have heard some of the most awful concepts, voiced in the name of religion. And when I ask, "Where did that come from?", people tell me: "From my neighbor." Proving, once again, that stupidity is more often copied than countered. Which explains a lot of things ... then and now.

Having said that, we could fast-forward the discussion from child sacrifice then, to child sacrifice now. For it happens, you know ... although it is seldom described as such. Oh, there are occasional kooks like the guy in Muskegon who threw his daughter into a foundry furnace because (as he said): "I heard voices." And all of us remember the father who drove his kids into the Detroit River at the foot of Eureka Road, "sparing them the pain of this cruel, cruel world." Fortunately, there are not too many of these, and most of us view their actions (when they occur), not as examples of great sacrifice, but as examples of great sickness.

Still, if Jephthah's story is that of a man who sacrificed a great love in order to win a great victory, which of us has not seen it, heard it, or perhaps even done it? Maybe we haven't been so crude as to bring God into the mix (as in saying: "You give me this, God, and I'll give you that"), but we have gone hell-bent after lesser things, even as we were losing other things that should have been more important. I have known lots of people who came home in triumph, but there wasn't anybody to meet them when they got there ... given that they arrived much too late at night, or much too late in the relationship. They got their victory. But at what sacrifice?

And what of the crack children...the abandoned and illegitimate children ... the physically and sexually abused children ... to what God (and in whose name) have they been sacrificed?

And what about the children who shuttle from home to home, from weekend to weekend, because once-upon-a-time two people said that "divorce would be so much better for the children?" Except nobody asked the children.

I could go on. But to what end? The point's made. The pain's felt. And every person in this room could tell the story of some kid ... deemed expendable by somebody ... for some reason (that made a whole lot of sense at the time, to everybody but the kid). Which is why such things are never called "sacrifices," but are spoken of as "things that happen in a hard world."

So let's try a third tack. Let's talk about bargains with God. "Let's make a deal," Jephthah prayed. "You give me a victory, and I'll give you the first thing through the front door." Which God did. And Jephthah did.

Or is that really the way it worked? Does God respond to such overtures? Does God expect such overtures? Or even desire such overtures? When do such overtures cross the line that separates s legitimate act of devotion from an outright bribe? And if God can be bought, what is the fate of those who have little to offer? Having pondered sacrificial systems in religion for years, I am convinced that such systems have more to do with the greed (or need) of the one doing the giving, than with the delight (or demand) of the God doing the receiving.

Don't get me wrong. Making a promise to God is a very good thing. Keeping a promise made to God is an even better thing. But making and keeping a promise on the condition that God will guarantee a desired result is a very bad thing. The Bible tells us that we should not put God to such tests. And the Bible is wise. For it diverts us from a theology based upon reciprocity, which is a theology doomed ultimately to failure. For, sooner or later, we will not give God what God wants, or God will not give us what we want. And the deal will collapse. Besides, the whole idea is incredibly self-serving. What if Jephthah's daughter had prayed: "O God, if you bring my daddy safely home from the war, I'll become a nun." Such a prayer would have forced God into deciding which bargain to honor ... Jephthah's or his daughter's. Would God rather have a dead virgin headed for heaven, or a live nun serving on earth?

But there's a fourth and final place I want to go with this. And that begins with the question: "Are we always doomed by the choices we make ... or (worse yet) by the circumstances of the situation in which we live?" As I read the commentaries on this powerful passage, I was struck by how many people saw Jephthah as a tragic figure. After all ... a hooker for a mother ... a philanderer for a father ... a bunch of money grubbers for brothers ... driven from the house ... living on the run ... surviving by fighting ... winning, then losing. A tragic son who became a tragic father ... doomed by a script he did not write ... locked into a deal he could not break. We tend to see him as a man who didn't have much of a chance ... or who didn't give himself much of a chance. A classic victim ... first, of life ... then, in some strangely perverse way, of God.

Except that it didn't have to end that way. God didn't want his deal. God didn't want his daughter. God didn't want to see him broken. God didn't want to see her burned. God didn't derive one ounce of pleasure from his predicament. I really believe that.

One of the hardest things about the ministry is convincing people who feel themselves to be in the pit, that God did not put them there ... that God does not want them there ... and that God, through his Son, Jesus Christ, could help them climb from there. Life is redeemable ... meaning that how it was is not necessarily how it has to go on being. Cycles can be broken. Addictions can be beaten. Scripts can be rewritten. Next to every bumper sticker that reads: STUFF HAPPENS (a loose translation), should be another bumper sticker that reads: GRACE HAPPENS. Because it does ... every bit as much, and every bit as often. Which is why they call it "amazing."

I believe that God has made a commitment to our stories and our struggles. I believe that God can factor himself into the chemistry of our lives in ways that can make bitter waters sweet and sour spirits sing. I believe that every time life sucks, God breathes. And I believe that resurrections can happen on both sides of the grave. I wish I could have told Jephthah that. Even more, I wish that I could tell you that.

Jephthah! Poor tragic son of Gilead and some unnamed hooker. Funny word, though ... Gilead. I couldn't flush it from my mind as I was trying to finish my sermon. So along about 10:00 last night, I came down to the church ... headed for the library ... and did a little bit of work with the Interpreter's Bible Dictionary. "Gilead" means six different things in scripture. A man. A tribe. A town. A region. A mountain. And ... are you ready for this ... a balm (Jeremiah 8:22). As in:

There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole.
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin-sick soul.

Note: Once again, I find myself indebted to Ellsworth Kalas and his marvelous little book, Old Testament Stories from the Backside. It should also be noted that the congregation was encouraged to sing, a capella, the lines with which the sermon closes.