Sermon preached by Rev. Margie Quinn on Sunday, June 14, 2026
It was a really hot day. It was really hot. And then imagine being a 99-year-old man. And there's like a new kind of hot when it comes from having been alive for a lot of hot days like that. I had been going ever since God called me into this role. Ever since God told me, Abram, you are going to go out and you are going to make nations as numbered as the stars in the sky. And I was tired. So I was lost in thought. I was leaning my back up against the tent as my wife Sarah and my teenager Ishmael slept. And I was replaying this conversation that I had had with God not too long ago. God spoke to me and said, "Your wife Sarah, she's going to have a son. She's going to bring you a son." This God who had changed my name from Abram, which means ancestor, to Abraham, which means ancestor of multitudes. Multitudes. All I had was Ishmael. I was just the father of one. And then God came up to me and said that there would be another.
I don't know. It felt like too wonderful to be true. Even for God. Sometimes I still felt this unspoken resentment with my wife Sarah. It had been 13 years since the birth of Ishmael. But those 13 years ago, she had demanded out of a grief and a desperation that I'll admit I don't know what that feels like. She had demanded that I conceive with our slave girl Hagar. She told me I needed to have a son. And so I did. And after she blamed me, and then she dealt really harshly with Hagar. I will never claim to understand what she was going through. But marriage can feel lonelier than being alone sometimes. But we had survived it. We're still here. We're still getting older day by day. And we're still finding each other's hands in the dark to hold. However weathered or wrinkled they are, we're still taking care of this boy, this boy that we didn't know we could love so much. Our Ishmael, ancestor of multitudes, God had named me. But God had promised, but God had fulfilled every promise that God had made me so far. I will bless her, God told me. And I will give you a son by her, and I will bless her, God said again. And she shall give rise to nations. Kings of people shall come from her. What could I do but fall on my face and laugh? Can a child be born to a man that is a hundred years old? I asked God. Can a child be born to a woman that is 90 years old? No offense, I asked God.
God promised to bless Ishmael, but then told me the name of my new unborn son. God said, "This son will be named Isaac." You know what that means, Abraham? No. He laughs.
I was really tired. Raise your hand if you've raised a teenage boy. Go on, raise it so you get it. Well, now imagine being 90 and having arthritis, having a bad back and being worn out and tired and fatigued all the time and sleeping in a tent with two really smelly men. Now you're starting to feel my pain. Carrying packs every day, moving around because my husband was talking to God all of the time, not that I ever had. Carrying with me this weight of such a layered life, carrying with me the grief of what my body had never given me, of what I hoped it could have, and the shame of what I couldn't do, of what I wasn't able to bear. But then the joy of this unexpected surprise named Ishmael and this inexplicable, undefinable love at my husband Abraham, who got on my very last nerve, at whom there were layers and patterns of pain there, but who always found my hand in the dark, weathered and wrinkled. I was tired and I was in that place between when you're kind of asleep but when you're kind of awake, show of hands. But then I heard the voice of God. I knew it was the voice of God. Even though God had never talked to me directly, I knew that voice by now. God who only spoke to my husband. God who even spoke to the slave girl, Hagar, but had never spoken to me. But I knew that voice, had been around Abraham enough to believe that there really was a guiding hand asking him, asking us to follow. And so when I peeked out and saw three men standing outside of the tent, somehow just intrinsically I knew that those strangers were angels, that those men were one. Abraham, my husband, he's ever the host. He immediately ran up to them, bowed at their feet. He would have done that even if it wasn't God. But pretty sure he knew who it was too. And he said, "Rest. Rest a while." Isn't it funny how we can always offer people rest and we can't really afford to give it to ourselves? Rest a while. He said, "We will get water for you to wash your feet. We'll bake you cakes for you to eat." He offered this to all of them. But I knew who was going to have to provide it. Sarah, he yelled. Yeah, I was just waiting for it. Quickly, can you make cakes for these men? And then he tried to explain to me how to bake. Okay. He said, "Make three measures of choice flour. Knead the — I got it." And then he took our calf. Women can kind of do a bunch of things at one time. So I was kneading and I was still peeking out the tent. He took our calf and he got milk from the calf and made curds and milk and offered it to them as well. From the tent, I watched Abraham and these three strangers, angels, men of God, God.
I'm from ancient times. I don't know what this is.
I watched Abraham with these strangers, angels, men of God, God, sitting and talking with them. They were swapping stories and telling tales. And I, ever the woman, ever the homemaker, stayed where I was, just listening, eavesdropping. But then I heard my name. Where's your wife? Where's Sarah? Uh-oh. Did they hear me complaining? My whole body like froze. There in the tent, he said. Oh, were they going to say thank you for the meal? I will return, the man said. And when I do, she will have a son. Okay. I'd heard that one before. I'm 90. I'm not having a son. Abraham had hinted at this. He had told me that he had spoken to God another time and God had mentioned this promise, but I wasn't buying it. No, I'd given up on prayer. I'd given up on hoping. My husband had enough faith for the both of us. And so, what do you do when something sounds so ridiculous and delusional and insane? You just laugh. So, I started talking to myself as I was cleaning up the extra dough. I've gotten old. Abraham's even older. Now, I'm going to have the pleasure of having a son. But then, of course, I hear God. But God's talking to Abraham and not me. God never talks to me. And God asks, "Why did Sarah laugh?" Uh-oh. God heard me. God hears me.
Why did she say, "Am I really going to bear a child now that I'm old?" God asked my husband, "Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?" "I'll come back and she'll have a son." "I didn't laugh," I cried out. I hoped I'd catch God before he left. I was scared. All of the sudden, I felt like after having lived in the shadows of my husband's story, there was this great light that was shining on me. All of the sudden, it felt like all my mumbling and complaining and crying and weeping in the night, the volume turned up and I was heard.
And then for the first time ever, God spoke to me. God spoke to me, Sarah. And God said, "Oh yes, you did laugh." And then I laughed again. And this time God joined me. Maybe nothing is too wonderful for God.
Yeah, I was asleep for that whole thing. My mom told me about something called puberty and it basically feels like someone's taking your limbs and like stretching them out and you're just really tired all the time. So, I was just taking a nap for that one. But, and maybe I dreamed it, but I could have sworn. I think for the first time in my whole life, I think I heard my mom laugh.
God ended up fulfilling God's promise. Sarah gave birth to Isaac when she was 90 and when Abraham was a hundred years old. She had not laughed in years until that day under that oak tree with God. And looking at this boy, looking at her new boy Isaac with Abraham and Ishmael next to her, she said, "God has brought laughter for me. Everyone who hears me will laugh."
I'm back. What's been going on? I do know what this is. So, who are you in this story? Who are you in this story? Are you taking a nap as I'm preaching? Maybe. Are you hosting people for cakes later today? Are you the kind of person who flings the door open and says, "Come on. Come on in. We'll get you lemonade. We'll get you cookies. We'll have it all ready." Meanwhile, you may have an introverted partner or child who's like, "Wait, wait, wait. Let's talk about this." Are you sure of God's promises in your life? Do you laugh out of a certainty and belief that you know that God is talking to you about something that you yourself had prayed for, had hoped for, and is now coming true? Or do you laugh at the possibility that the best is yet to come? A cold laugh, a bitter laugh, a resigned laugh, a laugh that says impossible, a laugh that says ridiculous, a laugh that doesn't come from any place in that deep gut belly, but is more of a scoff.
Are you old? Are you feeling those aches and pains? Are you young and feeling those aches and pains? Are you hoping for a baby? Are you hungry for someone to offer you cake and milk and sit at your feet and tell stories with you? Make you feel more welcomed and a little less lonely in a new place. Are you someone who needs me to repeat the instructions for the cake? I need instructions for the cake repeated to me. We bring our whole selves to God. And how I know that is through these families and these stories in Genesis that there's no one right way to be. That there's no right figure in these stories and these passages that we've carried on for millennia. Some are invited to rush out and kneel at God's feet in this moment of such strong faithfulness that might feel like a snapshot in our lives. Or maybe it's how we always are. Some of us laugh in God's face when something feels too ridiculous to be true. Sometimes we fall asleep and miss God's promises, numb, unawake,
not knowing or maybe trusting that they'll still be there when we wake up. And church, this week we journey through Genesis once again with a man named Abraham and a woman named Sarah and a boy named Ishmael and a baby named Isaac. We journey with angels and strangers, with a family that is dog tired and weary from trusting in a surprising, unexpecting, laughing God. We journey with a family that knows what it's like to hope. To hope against hope. We journey with a family that is tired.
Like all families, this larger family that we are a part of has it all. This family knows loss. This family knows surprise. This family knows puberty. This family knows grief and love and long marriages filled with many different lives in them. This family knows what it means to pick up and go, to travel out of love for one's family. And this family at different times has heard from God, has heard the voice of God speak to them. And for some, it happened early in their life. And for others, it happened when they were 90, which might mean that it doesn't mean it can't happen for us yet.
Are you Abraham? Are you Sarah? Are you Ishmael? Are you a stranger? Are you an angel? Are you not sure? Are you still finding your place in this ancient book, wondering where you'll see yourself in it? Today, next Sunday, and the one after. We hope and believe that you will. That this text that can feel so antiquated is actually something that's quite intimate, real, and present in our lives in this sanctuary today. So laugh with me at the hilarity of it all. Of old people getting pregnant, of a man giving a woman instructions on how to make a cake. We are in here. And believe it or not, God hears us. Believe it or not, nothing is too wonderful for God. Amen.