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Romans 12

17 Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. 18 If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. 19 Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,”[d] says the Lord. 20 On the contrary:

“If your enemy is hungry, feed him;

    if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.

In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.”[e]

21 Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

No one wants to be regarded as a loose cannon on the deck.

But if you were a loose cannon on the deck, you would surely be aware that you are being summarized with a sailing idiom.  An idiom is a turn of phase with a particular meaning often unrelated to the words themselves.  In other words, you may be disruptive, or careless, of a breaker of norms, but only a “loose cannon” if you know the idiom.  Clearly, this idiom doesn’t hide its maritime origin.

Other idioms hide their nautical beginnings a little more carefully.  If you are learning the ropes, you know that you are acquiring knowledge unique to a disciple or a trade.  For the new sailor, your full-time job is literally learning the ropes, or determining the purpose of every sheet, halyard, or line. (Ironically, the first thing you learn is that there are no ropes on a boat, only sheets, halyards, and lines). Likewise, showing your true colours—giving people a sense of the real you—began as a nautical phrase.  Flags (your colours) were used to identify your country of origin, unless, of course, you were a pirate.  Pirates would fail to show their true colours, until they showed their true colours, and by that time it was too late.  

Sometimes we suspect that an idiom comes from the sea, but it’s not clear how.  Pipe down, as an example, is something you tell noisy children or neighbours, and it seems to come from the practice of blowing the bo’sun’s pipe at the end of the day.  You were literally piped down to your hammock.  There is evidence, however, that ‘pipe down’ became just another thing to shout at the crew, something my skipper does with some regularity.

Finally, I give you a favourite of mine, ‘shipshape and Bristol fashion.’  There’s no mystery that this is a nautical idiom, shipshape gives it away, but ‘Bristol fashion’ is a bit of a mystery.  Some argue that Bristol was a preeminent port that prided itself on its orderliness, while others have a more complex origin story.  Bristol is located on the River Avon, a tidal river, which in olden days meant that when the tide went out your boat would rest on its keel, often on an angle.  In Bristol, therefore, everything on board had to be fastened securely—Bristol fashion—or there would be a terrible mess.  

I share all of this because St. Paul shares an idiom with us, and the meaning is somewhat unclear.  Here it is:

“If your enemy is hungry, feed him;

    if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.

In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.”

First, we should note that it’s actually a quote from Proverbs 25 (21-22), a fact that doesn’t make the meaning any clearer.  Gallons of ink have been spilled trying to make sense of this idiom, found in the context of not seeking revenge—while at the same time sounding like the precise sort of thing you might do to seek revenge.  So what does it mean?

One kind-hearted soul suggested that “heap burning coals on his head” was something you did for others if their homefire went out.  Since the ancient near-eastern practice was to carry burning coals on the head (in a suitable vessel, of course), the phrase simply described an act of neighbourliness.  Lovely, but unlikely.  I expect “heap burning coals on his head” sounds harsh, because it was meant to be harsh.

Another suggestion looks to Egyptian literature, in this case to suggest that “coals of fire” meant to change your mind, or have a change of heart.  Therefore, it would seem, that “heap burning coals on his head” was a way to expedite this change process, to help them along.  I think this is a little closer to the mark, since we are talking about transformation, but again we’re not quite there.  Again, “heap burning coals on his head” sounds rather unpleasant to me.

More convincing, to my mind, is the idea this is an analogy.  Being kind to your enemy will humiliate them, in the same way that heaping burning coals on their head would be a terrible humiliation.  Rather than repay evil with evil, why not repay with good.  This will disarm your enemy, leaving that about as unbalanced as getting the burning coal treatment.  

All of this, however, is jumping ahead.  The passage is about Christian living, an answer to the question “how then, shall we live?”  God has given us the gift of new life in Christ, and now we need to do something, respond somehow, and live differently.  How then, shall we live?

What Paul has assembled is an assortment of Old and New Testament quotes, bits of wisdom, law and Gospel.  There’s Amos 5, Proverbs 3, Lev 19 and Deut 32, and that direct quote from Proverbs 25 we’ve already exhausted.  Paul quotes Jesus (John 13, Mat 25, Luke 6, Mat 5) demonstrating this adherence to the Gospel and his familiarity with Jesus’ thought.  But there is more happening in this relationship than just effective quoting.  There seems to be another story, and I’m going to suggest it began the day Jesus heaped burning coals on Paul’s head.  Let me explain.

Before I do that, I have to tell you about one of my favourite paintings.  It’s here in the liturgy, Caravaggio’s Conversion on the Way to Damascus, found in the Basilica of Santa Maria del Popolo in Rome.  I would put heavy emphasis on the word found, since you have to search for it once you’re in the church.  You would expect that when your church has one of the most famous paintings in the world, you might put it someone visible, but that would be too obvious.  Instead it’s in a small side-chapel near the chancel, perpendicular to the viewer, and nearly impossible to see in its fullness (or get a proper photo).  Luckily, we have the internet, so we can see it in all its drama and glory.  

We see St. Paul unhorsed, at the second that he appears to hit the ground.  His arms are elevated, that familiar reflex as you fall, as his attendant looks on.  Beside him is his sword, his saints’ symbol, and the mode of his death (he was beheaded).  His eyes are closed, which seems a likely response to fall, but we soon learn that his eyes have been closed by the experience, and will not reopen until some time later.  Unspoken in the painting (but in the mind of the viewer) is the words spoken by Jesus in that moment, "Savle quid me perseveres?" (Saul, why do you persecute me?).  

Saul (pre-Paul) has done evil to Jesus and his followers, and was first among those who opposed Jesus and his way.  We see him on the edge of the crowd during the stoning of St. Stephen, and we know that he will confess more in his letters.  And how does Jesus repay this evil?  First, by loving him enough to see that he can become more than Saul—more than a persecutor of the church.  But more importantly, he repays Saul’s evil by destroying the life he was living, heaping the burning coals of destruction on his head, ending one life so another could begin.  

And Jesus expects no less of us.  Maybe we weren’t unhorsed, and maybe we didn’t have burning coals heaped on our heads, but the experience of new life in Christ is meant to be just as dramatic a turn-around from the way the world lives.  Maybe you can’t name a Saul-Paul moment, a dramatic rebirth at the bidding of Jesus the Christ, but the change is still there.  Day-by-day, our walk with Christ is meant to unhorse us, to open our eyes to new needs and new trouble, and new meaning.  Everyday is the opportunity for rebirth, a new baptism of forgiveness and love.

Paul became a loose cannon on the deck.  No longer Saul the persecutor, he became Paul the apostle, the teacher, the guide.  His message was about Christian living, how to live in the light of new life.  Love, share, and be hospitable, he said.  Live in harmony with others, laugh with the happy and cry with the sad, don’t imagine you’re better than others, and do not repay evil with evil.  It’s a vision of an alternate way of being, where you too can be a loose cannon on the deck.  Amen.

15 The king of Egypt said to the Hebrew midwives, whose names were Shiphrah and Puah, 16 “When you are helping the Hebrew women during childbirth on the delivery stool, if you see that the baby is a boy, kill him; but if it is a girl, let her live.” 17 The midwives, however, feared God and did not do what the king of Egypt had told them to do; they let the boys live. 18 Then the king of Egypt summoned the midwives and asked them, “Why have you done this? Why have you let the boys live?”

19 The midwives answered Pharaoh, “Hebrew women are not like Egyptian women; they are vigorous and give birth before the midwives arrive.”

20 So God was kind to the midwives and the people increased and became even more numerous. 21 And because the midwives feared God, he gave them families of their own.

In the spirit of fairness, I give you evil kings.

After Mary I, Eadburh of Wessex, and old Jezebel, it seems fair to look at regal malevolence from the male point-of-view.  There are, of course, no shortage of examples.  And for that reason, I’m going to limit my look to evil kings in the Bible, beginning with Ahab, consort of the infamous Jezebel.  You might say Ahab is more of the unindicted co-conspirator type (see last week), but he’s a bad hombre nonetheless.  

Next, I might suggest Abimelech, who wanted to be king of Shechem, but had two problems: he was illegitimate (being the son of a Shechemite concubine) and he had 70 brothers, each with a better claim to the throne.  He killed them all, save one, and claimed the throne.  

Then there is the first Pharaoh on our list, this one made famous by Yul Brenner in the Ten Commandments.  Handsome, yes, but hardhearted, stubborn, and seemingly impervious to frogs, lice, boils, pestilence, and most other plagues.  

Or, how about King Herod, stock villain of every church school pageant since the dawn of time?  Infanticide is the quickest route to being declared an evil king, so he qualifies.  

And speaking of infanticide, we meet today’s evil king, an unnamed Pharoah who was obviously the boyhood hero of King Herod.  In Exodus 1, we learn that whatever lingering gratitude the royal house of Egypt felt toward Joseph and his people was gone.  The Egyptians felt threatened by the growing Israelite population, and feared a slave revolt or worse.

More taskmasters were appointed, and the Israelites were compelled to build new cities—cities of stone—yet the sense of threat did not recede.  The author of Exodus describes the situation in simple terms: “the more they were oppressed, the more they multiplied and spread; so the Egyptians came to dread the Israelites and worked them ruthlessly.”  Clearly, Pharaoh needs a new plan, so he calls the midwives:

15 The king of Egypt said to the Hebrew midwives, whose names were Shiphrah and Puah, 16 “When you are helping the Hebrew women during childbirth on the delivery stool, if you see that the baby is a boy, kill him; but if it is a girl, let her live.” 17 The midwives, however, feared God and did not do what the king of Egypt had told them to do; they let the boys live. 18 Then the king of Egypt summoned the midwives and asked them, “Why have you done this? Why have you let the boys live?”

19 The midwives answered Pharaoh, “Hebrew women are not like Egyptian women; they are vigorous and give birth before the midwives arrive.”

I don’t do sermon titles, but if I did, I might call this sermon “How to lie to a tyrant.”  For you see, when you lie to a tyrant, you need to speak to the tyrant’s bias or base assumption.  So, in this example, they describe the Hebrew women as more “vigorous,” which I expect Pharaoh heard as less refined than the Egyptian women.  Some scholars have even suggested that vigorous is code for beast-like, which would take the existing bias argument even further.  Whatever the meaning of vigorous, it’s clear that Pharaoh accepts the lie they concoct— disappointed that they have not completed their mission, but satisfied with their answer.  

So who are these women, Shiphrah and Puah?  The fact that they are named, while Pharaoh remains unnamed, tells us that they are the real subjects of the story.  Again, there is a bit of a debate about their identity, since the Hebrew is unclear.  It seems the key words can be translated “Hebrew midwives” or “the midwives to the Hebrews.”  Now, my resident scholar is out of town, so I’m flying blind here, but this translation problem could explain a lot.  

If the midwives were Egyptians tasked with obstetrics among the Hebrew women, the order to kill the male babies seems less unlikely.  If the midwives were Hebrews, then we get into a whole other conversation about servitude and the extent to which those enslaved could be expected to carry out genocide against their own people.  There is ample evidence that this occurs, but it remains a puzzle within the text.  

The one thing we can infer is that these women have status within their society.  They seem to have some oversight role among the midwives, since we can safely assume that there were more than two.  Perhaps they were the head of their guild, women responsible for the practice of midwifery throughout the society.  Such guilds functioned as both oversight bodies and centres of education.  Perhaps Shiphrah and Puah were “ministers of midwifery” within the governmental structure, the kind of people you would turn to to implement a controversial plan.*

But the plan—for a moment at least—is thwarted.  Pharaoh accepts the lie that the midwives were late every single time, and he must find a new way to proceed.  The late professor David Daube describes the action (inaction?) of Shiphrah and Puah as civil disobedience, and “the oldest record in world literature of the spurning of a governmental decree.”  It won’t take long for the next act, when Moses’ mother and the daughter of Pharaoh engage in their own flaunting of the law, but pride-of-place belongs to Shiphrah and Puah.  They are the mothers of civil disobedience, engaging in “good trouble” (quoting the late John Lewis) to overcome the ultimate example of state-sponsored violence: genocide.  

And just because the lesson for today has taken us into the realm of resistance, I want to go a step further, and draw a link between the language of Pharaoh and the great scourge of our time, white supremacy.  Listen as Pharaoh describes his view:

8 Then a new king, to whom Joseph meant nothing, came to power in Egypt. 9 “Look,” he said to his people, “the Israelites have become far too numerous for us. 10 Come, we must deal shrewdly with them or they will become even more numerous and, if war breaks out, will join our enemies, fight against us and leave the country.”

It has long been argued that “Make America Great Again” is a dog-whistle to those who believe that America peaked in the 1950s and can only be great if the clock could somehow be wound back.  And the choice of time is not accidental, since it predates civil rights legislation, gay rights, environmental regulations, second-wave feminism, and increased immigration from non-white majority nations.  The words “far too numerous for us” could be found in a tweet, and they betray a sense that some belong and some do not.  

When Hannah Arendt wrote her book on the Eichmann trial, she chose as a subtitle “A Report on the Banality of Evil.”  It has become a familiar and oft-deployed phrase, describing the way evil hides behind “just following orders” or “just following the law.”  When malevolent people control the levers of government, making dangerous laws or enacting corrupt policies, it falls to ordinary women and men to do the extraordinary things needed to meet the moment.

Meeting the moment, we meet Shiphrah and Puah.  They bravely defy Pharaoh and “so God was kind to the midwives and the people increased and became even more numerous. And because the midwives feared God, he gave them families of their own.”  Thus the House of Shiphrah and the House of Puah were founded, blessed by the God who blesses the troublemakers, those willing to defy the Pharaoh’s of this world.  

May God continue to bless those who seek justice and resist evil.  And may God bless those with the determination and creativity of Shiphrah and Puah, midwives of good trouble. Amen.

Then Joseph could no longer control himself before all his attendants, and he cried out, “Have everyone leave my presence!” So there was no one with Joseph when he made himself known to his brothers. 2 And he wept so loudly that the Egyptians heard him, and Pharaoh’s household heard about it.

3 Joseph said to his brothers, “I am Joseph! Is my father still living?” But his brothers were not able to answer him, because they were terrified at his presence.

4 Then Joseph said to his brothers, “Come close to me.” When they had done so, he said, “I am your brother Joseph, the one you sold into Egypt! 5 And now, do not be distressed and do not be angry with yourselves for selling me here, because it was to save lives that God sent me ahead of you. 6 For two years now there has been famine in the land, and for the next five years there will be no plowing and reaping. 7 But God sent me ahead of you to preserve for you a remnant on earth and to save your lives by a great deliverance.

Our story begins with a criminal conspiracy.

No, we’re not talking about Russian interference or coercing Ukraine to help find dirt.  That’s another sermon.  In this sermon, Joseph’s brothers conspire to murder the lad, then change their minds, then conspire to deceive their father, and break an old man’s heart.  But is it still criminal?

Conspiracy is one of those things you hear on television all the time.  If you have an appetite for procedural dramas of a criminal sort, you will know that when two or more people conspire to commit an offence, yet only one person does the deed, everyone gets charged.  In fact, doing the deed isn’t even necessary for the conspiracy charge to stick, since planning a crime is a crime itself.

And just because I’ve waited 30 years to quote a legal decision in a sermon, here is Regina v. O’Brien [1954]: “The law punishes conspiracy so that the unlawful object is not attained. It considers that several persons who agree together to commit an unlawful act, are a menace to society.”  So the next time you and a friend are eyeing the donut on my plate, and agree to split my tasty donut, think again—no one wants to be labelled a menace to society.

(Just as an aside, keep R. v. Déry, [2006] in your back pocket.  In my donut example, the Supreme Court does not include “fruitless discussions” as conspiracy.  You need to make a proper plan.)

Back to poor Joseph.  It’s not his fault that he’s his father’s favourite.  Of that he has vivid dreams that others find annoying.  Or that he can interpret the dreams of others.  Or that his father gave him a fabulous coat, the kind of coat that just screams “Broadway musical.”  Maybe Joseph was a little overbearing, or enjoyed his special status a little too much.  But a criminal conspiracy?  That’s going too far.

On the day in question, Joseph’s father has sent the lad to check up on the others, and make sure they’re doing their work.  He’s still a speck on the horizon when the brother’s decide they’ve had enough of this upstart.  They agree to kill him.  Their plan—if you could call it a plan—is to kill Joseph, throw his body in an empty cistern, and claim a wild animal did it.  

Luckily for Joseph, one brother couldn’t abide the plan.  Reuben suggested they forget the killing part and just throw him in the cistern—just teach him a lesson, I suppose.  But just then some traders appear, and the brothers hit on a new plan: sell Joseph to the Egyptbound traders, make some shekels, and then present a bloodied dreamcoat to their father.  And the plan works.  Joseph is sold on to Potiphar, the captain of the Pharaoh’s guard, and Jacob believes that his son is gone.  

But that, of course, isn’t the end of the story.  To summarize our way to today’s reading, we learn:

Some sort of Mrs. Robinson thing happens with Joseph and Potiphar's wife.

Joseph lands in jail, but uses his dream gift to impress others.

One of the impressed inmates takes word back to Pharaoh, and Joseph is released.

Joseph interprets Pharaoh's dream of fat and skinny cows, and becomes vizier.

As vizier—sort of like Prime Minister—Joseph saves the land from famine (and skinny cows).

People from the surrounding nations come to buy from Egypt’s ample supply of grain, including Joseph's own brothers.

There is some back and forth with a silver cup (see chapter 44)

And the moment finally comes for Joseph to reveal to his brothers that he is, in fact, the vizier of Egypt.

But first Joseph has a good cry.  People were a bit more emotional back then.  He has a good cry and then the reveal:

“I am Joseph! Is my father still living?” But his brothers were not able to answer him, because they were terrified at his presence.

4 Then Joseph said to his brothers, “Come close to me.” When they had done so, he said, “I am your brother Joseph, the one you sold into Egypt! 5 And now, do not be distressed and do not be angry with yourselves for selling me here, because it was to save lives that God sent me ahead of you.”

And just because they’re in shock, he says it again, and then again: “God sent me ahead of you to save your lives!  Go and get my father, and bring him along.  There will be five more years of famine, some I’m going to settle you in the nearby Land of Goshen, and I will provide for you there—for you, your children and grandchildren, your flocks and herds, and all you have.”  At this moment, he embraced his brother Benjamin, and started crying. And Benjamin hugged him back, and started crying.  Then I assume everyone was crying—because afterall—it was a more emotional time.

This is the moment to ponder hugging in the Bible.  Where else do we see tearful reunions, families reunited in an emotional time?  I think you see where I’m headed.  This is really just an early telling of the prodigal son—which Jesus has recast to teach us about the Kingdom.  How does it work?

Joseph, like the prodigal, is in a faraway land, and only late in the story chooses to return home (or rather, lets home come to him).  There is lots of brotherly resentment, for Joseph on the front-end of the story, and for the prodigal at the end-end of the story.  Both stories have an element of “while he was still far off,” but with a twist.  For Joseph being far off gives his brothers occasion to plot against him, for the prodigal being far off gives the father time to plot forgiveness.  

And forgiveness is where the stories truly meet.  Yes, Joseph was forgiving from a position of good fortune, but this does not erase the pain of being sold, imprisoned, and separated from the father he loved.  He could have just as easily turned his brothers away, or imprisoned them for all they did and for all they conspired to do.  But he did not.  He chose to forgive.

Likewise, the father of the prodigal had every reason to align with the older brother.  Half his fortune wasted on profligate living.  A faithful son still by this side.  He could easily have turned the prodigal son away, and let the dead remain dead in his eyes, but he did not. He chose to forgive.  

The glue that binds these two passages is a forgiving God.  God could have acted to thwart the co-conspirators, but gave occasion to save them instead.  Joseph gives God the glory, he doesn’t claim it for himself.  It is God’s desire to preserve Joseph and by extension to save the rest of the tribe, since God has plans for all of them.  And God can forgive these brothers, even when they don’t deserve it.

And again, the parable of the prodigal son is a glimpse of God’s kingdom, where wastrels and those given to profligate living also receive forgiveness: once dead, he is alive once more—was lost, but now is found.  It is God’s desire to reach beyond resentment and “the way the world works” and forgive instead.  It is God’s desire that everyone separated from kin and clan find their way home, resting in the everlasting arms of a forgiving God.  Amen.