The Worst Laid Plans

Genesis 38:12-26

December 3, 2023 • Mount Pleasant UMC

Well, it’s Advent, and usually during this season we come to church expecting to hear the stories from Luke and Matthew about the birth of Jesus. And we will hear those stories, but it’s going to be a few weeks. I’ve been sitting on this sermon series idea for a while now, ever since I noticed that there are four women listed in the genealogy of Jesus. And there are four weeks in Advent. Coincidence? I think not. So we’re going to do something very different for Advent this year, as if you don’t already know that by the Scripture reading this morning. We’re going to look at one of these women each week and see what they have to teach us because, to be honest, including women in ancient Hebrew genealogies was unusual. Usually, lineage was traced through men, and the women’s names went unrehearsed and unremembered. But here, in the beginning of Matthew’s Gospel, we have four women—three of whom are named and one of whom is described—who are listed as part of Jesus’ heritage. My curious mind started wondering: why were these four women remembered in this way? Why not any others? Is it possible these have something to teach us about the character of the savior of the world? Maybe so. And so for the next four weeks, we’re going to look at each of these women, these who are the “Daughters of Promise,” and see how they can better help us see Jesus. But before we begin, I think it’s important to hear the entire genealogy of Jesus, and to me there’s no better way to hear it than through a song.

The genealogy that Matthew gives us is not comprehensive; it’s selective. It’s organized in three sets of fourteen, first from Abraham to David, then from David to the exile, then from the exile to Jesus. And three of the four women are in that first section: Tamar, Rahab and Ruth all show up before King David. Tamar comes first, and her story is not a Sunday School-type story, so I should probably apologize to all the parents and grandparents today who are going to get questions when you go home. Maybe before you go home. Because this is a risqué story. When I used to teach Disciple Bible Study, the schedule of readings actually skipped over this chapter; even professional Bible scholars don’t really want to deal with it. But as I’ve proven over and over again, fools rush in where angels and scholars fear to tread. There’s also a fine line between brave and stupid, and I proved with the last sermon series I’m not afraid to come right up to that line. So here we go.

The genealogy includes Tamar as the mother of Perez and Zerah, whose father was Judah (Matthew 1:2). Something we should remember about Judah is that those who descended from him became one of the the largest tribes in Israel. When Israel split into two nations at one point, the northern kingdom was known as Israel and the southern kingdom took the name of Judah. Today, the wilderness in the south of Israel is still known as Judea, which is a corruption of the name Judah. So Judah figures pretty prominently in the history of God’s people. You would expect him to be above reproach, a man of high character and noble standing, wouldn’t you? Of course you would. And you couldn’t be more wrong.

Something else we need to know about this story is the custom called levirate marriage (cf. Ross, “Genesis,” Cornerstone Biblical Commentary, Vol. 1, pg. 214). At this point in Israel’s history, it’s a tradition they have adopted from other surrounding cultures; later it becomes a law, and it goes like this: if a married man dies and he has no male heir, the next brother in age must marry his widow and produce a son. That son, then, will legally be the son of the dead brother and inherit his possessions. It was a way of keeping the dead brother’s memory alive, carrying on his name and family line, and providing someone to look after his widow (Goldingay, Genesis for Everyone—Part Two, pg. 135). But what we see in the story of Judah’s family is that it wasn’t really something people—or at least some people—were all that excited about.

So Tamar marries Er, who, we’re told, is “wicked in the Lord’s sight” (38:7). We don’t know what he did, because apparently the author of Genesis doesn’t care about that. The text just says “the Lord put him to death” due to his wickedness. You know, if God did that today, there would a lot fewer people around. But anyway, Er died, and by law, Tamar was married off to his brother, Onan. Onan knew how this worked. Any child that was born would not be considered his, so he refused to cooperate and did not produce an heir. You can read the details if you want to, but the bottom line is the same result as Er: “the Lord put him to death also” (38:10).

So if you’re Judah at this point and you have a daughter-in-law who has had two husbands die under suspicious circumstances, what are you thinking? It must be her fault, right? There must be something wrong with her. Maybe she’s cursed or something. And he has one more son in line. Luckily, that son is too young to marry yet, so Judah sends Tamar back to her family and says, “When my son grows up, then you can marry him.” Except he doesn’t intend to ever let Tamar back into his household.

That’s where we came into the story this morning in our reading. “After a long time,” Judah is now a widower and is seeking—let’s just say, “companionship.” You heard the story about how Tamar posed as a prostitute, tricked Judah (her father-in-law) into getting her pregnant, and in payment she got the promise of a young goat. When he sends his payment back, she is no where to be found, so he gives up and forgets all about it—until word gets out that Tamar is now pregnant. Judah springs into action and threatens to have her killed because it appears she has cheated on the son Judah never intended to let her marry. “This has to be one of the earliest examples of the double standard!” (Ross 215). I’m telling you, modern stories have nothing on the things that really happened in the Bible! The only thing that saves Tamar’s life is that when she slept with Judah she was smart enough to acquire some of his personal property. She has “the seal with which he signs contracts, the cord on which it hangs around his neck, and his cane, which was presumably also marked in a way that identified it as his” (Goldingay 136). In those days, that would be the same as producing his driver’s license or his passport; it was unquestionably his property. There’s no DNA test, no talk show appearance, no court room drama and no denial. Once Tamar produces the evidence, Judah says, “She is more righteous than I” (38:26).

That’s a fascinating statement! Some even translate Judah’s as saying, “She is righteous; I am not” (Bream, The Women of the Bible Speak, pg. 58). It’s even more amazing when you remember that woman had no standing in that culture. Women were powerless, which was part of why levirate marriage existed anyway, to make sure the widows were taken care of. She has no power, no standing in the community, and she has acted immorally. But Judah ignores all that and, amazingly, he listens to her. And more that than, he acknowledges that he is the real problem here. Had he followed the custom and allowed her to marry his youngest son, had he not given into his fear of losing yet another son, none of this would have ever happened. Judah is not saying that what Tamar did was right, or that it’s any kind of example to follow. What he is admitting is that he dealt with her unjustly from the beginning.

Tamar’s story brings a couple of things for us to think about on this first Sunday of Advent, and one of those is the nature of righteousness. If we use that word to describe someone, we usually mean they are good at following some list of religious rules, whatever rules are most important for a particular community. Maybe they follow the Ten Commandments, or some list of New Testament rules. Righteousness, in the popular mindset, has to do with checking off the rules and a lot of times it devolves into self-righteousness or legalism. In other words, “I’m righteous because I’m righteous.” Jesus a lot argued with the religious leaders of his day about just that idea, about what righteousness really was. He told them they were hypocrites because they would tithe certain spices, following the letter of the law, but they neglected what was more important, things also commanded in the law: “justice, mercy and faithfulness.” He tells them, “You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former” (Matthew 23:23). Jesus’ attitude is firmly rooted in the Hebrew understanding that righteousness is more about justice, about doing the right thing in the setting you’re in. It’s not so much about legalism as it is about integrity and equity. Jesus didn’t criticize the religious leaders for their beliefs; he was always after them because they didn’t fully live out what they said they believed or what they told the people to do. He said, “Be careful to do everything they [the religious leaders] tell you. But do not do what they do, for they do not practice what they preach” (Matthew 23:2). Righteousness is about doing the right thing, not just believing it. It’s about doing what God would have us do (cf. New Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible, Vol. 4, pg. 808).

And that is why Judah can say, “She is more righteous than I” (38:26). He is not saying what she did was right. He is not saying that Tamar’s actions are any kind of example for God’s people. He is not saying that two wrongs make a right. What he is recognizing is that he lacked integrity in this incident (cf. Ross 215). He did not do what was right toward Tamar, and his inaction forced her into action, risky though it was. She was trying to fulfill her responsibility and give the family an heir, and Judah had prevented that, so “according to the law she had the right to be the mother of [Judah’s] child” (Ross 215).

This story also ties into our word for the first Sunday of Advent, which is hope. We use that word pretty loosely. I hope I get a good parking space. I hope my team wins today. I hope the preacher doesn’t go too long today because I have plans. All sorts of things we say we hope for, but those are pretty wispy hopes and desires. And we usually are hoping for things that will benefit us or those close to us. “Hope” in the Biblical tradition is not rooted in things that might happen. Hope, for the Christian, is rooted in the God who never changes and who makes spectacular promises to us. And so we talk about hope at the graveside, not because we have some nebulous desire for our loved one to live on, but because we know that the God who raised Jesus from the dead will raise our mortal bodies also. When I officiate at a funeral, I don’t read the verses from the end of Revelation (21:1-6) about “no more tears and crying and pain” as some sort of vague “this might be true” sort of promise. No, I read those verses in confidence that this is what will happen. My hope is not insecure; it is built on rock-solid promises made by Jesus Christ. For those who trust in him, hope is guaranteed.

That’s why the first Sunday of Advent traditionally focuses not on the birth of Jesus, but on the return of Jesus. That is the Christian’s great hope, that one day the clouds will part and the one who was once born in a humble manger will return in glory and power. I have to tell you, though, I chuckle every time an author or a preacher comes out with a new take on the details, on the when and the where of Jesus’ return. What part of “no one knows when it will happen” don’t they get (cf. Matthew 24:36)? It’s incredible arrogance to think we can figure out something Jesus himself says he doesn’t know. What the promise of Jesus’ return is supposed to do is give us hope, and confidence that no matter bad this world gets, the worst thing is never the last thing. In the end, Jesus will return and set all things right. That is our hope, and it is certain.

So how does this all tie into Tamar? Thank you for asking. Tamar’s story is one of incredible hope because it shows us that no matter how bad things get, God is not surprised, God is not knocked off his throne, and God can take anything we throw at him and make good come out of it. Here is a non-Jewish woman (so, actually, she was doubly without power in this Jewish family), an outsider, pregnant out of wedlock and, as it turns out, her father-in-law is the father, and by all legal precedent, she faced certain death. Tamar’s prospects are not looking great. And yet this woman becomes an ancestor to the savior of the world. If you read to the end of the chapter, Tamar gives birth to not just one son. She gives birth to twins: Perez and Zarah. Both of them are mentioned in the genealogy of Jesus, but Perez becomes a direct ancestor (Matthew 1:3), proving that God can take the worst laid plans of human beings and turn them into hope. What seemed like an “irredeemable plan,” a real mess, makes possible the Messiah, who will ultimately make all things right. As one author put it, “No matter how unfaithful we may be, God is always working in each of our stories, able not only to heal us, but also to use our human frailty to miraculous ends” (Bream 62).

God will always take the ordinary things, the broken, the beat-up and the battered things of this world and turn them into something miraculous, something hope-filled. On a dark night in a corner of Jerusalem, Jesus and his twelve followers gathered around an ordinary table where there was crushed grain—bread—and crushed grapes—wine—part of an ordinary Passover meal, something they had participated in every year of their lives. By the end of that night, Jesus had taken those ordinary things, broken pieces, and made them into something good. As he broke the bread, he named it: “This is my body.” And as he passed the cup, he named it as well: “This is my blood.” The next day, the most horrific act in history would take place and his body would be broken, his blood would be spilled, and somehow the human race now could be saved from sin and death. God took what was an unrighteous act on the part of the religious leaders and Rome, and turned it into the most miraculous event in history, that path through which we find righteousness and hope. Those disciples, later remembering what had happened on that weekend that changed the world, would forever see in broken bread and poured out wine a symbol of the hope for the world. The worst laid plans of human beings can always be turned to good, and there is always hope. As we come to the table this morning, let us remember that truth and hold on to that hope. Will you pray with me as we prepare our hearts this morning for the bread and the juice?