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FANFARE FOR COMMON FOLK
St. Andrew UCC
02-05-17
Genesis 4:1-16, 25-6
1 Corinthians 1:26-31
This morning I want to talk about Adam’s other son – Eve’s
too, for that matter. Almost sounds like a crossword puzzle
clue, doesn’t it? “Let’s see: offspring of Adam and Eve . . .
four letters . . . Cain. No, has to have an ‘e’ in it . . . Abel. No,
the ‘e’ is in the wrong place. The other son. Hmmm; who
could it be?”
As the word “other” suggests, it’s a person we usually have
a way of overlooking . . . the one who got away, someone whose
identity we have not troubled ourselves to learn. Adam and
Eve we know, and Cain and Abel we know; but it’s a good bet
that not one person in ten would come up with the name
“Seth” for the other son of Adam and Eve!
And Adam knew his wife again, and she bore a son and
called his name Seth, for she said, “God has appointed
for me another child instead of Abel, for Cain slew him.”
To Seth also a son was born, and he called his name
Enosh. At that time men began to call upon the name
of the Lord. [Genesis 4:25-26]
Seth. I’ve only known one person with that name. And
then there’s Seth Thomas of clock making fame, but that’s
pretty much as far as it goes with me. But maybe Seth’s very
obscurity can be instructive for us.
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Seth’s obscurity illustrates the world’s tendency to notice
the very good or the very bad and to ignore all the ordinary
folks in the middle. Now, anyone who knows the Bible at all
knows Cain. We find him fascinating in a sinister sort of way.
He wasn’t slow about letting his true feelings show – No! His
brother’s blood testifies to that. He was marked by God for
his own protection as an early sign of grace. Over the years,
writers have let their imagination play with “the mark of
Cain,” wondering what it might have been. That term has
become a byword in our language. He was made to be a
Nomad and a fugitive, and it’s not too hard to romanticize
that, particularly for a generation afflicted with wanderlust.
Truth be told, evil attracts us. William Blake spoke for
many of us with his observation that “an active evil is
preferable to a passive good.” And while we pray every
Sunday: “lead us not into temptation . . .” I only had to be led
once; after that I could find it on my own.
All the same, Cain was, by any measure, a wicked man, the
first murderer. He slew his brother, and not, we suppose,
because of a deprived childhood or some other deficiency in his
environment. No, his heart was evil. Had the mass media
been around in his day, he surely would have made the 11:00
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news and been on the front page of The Herald Tribune with
his picture above the fold. Anybody who knows that Bible at
all knows Cain.
And anybody who knows the Bible knows Abel, too – the
victim – patron saint of all who have been treacherously done
in. He was a good man . . . so good, in fact, that he incited his
brother’s jealousy and anger. The record says: “The Lord had
regard for Abel and his offering, but for Cain and his offering,
the Lord had no regard.” Ever wonder why? Some have
seized upon that comment to talk about the importance of
blood sacrifice. Others say it is a precursor to the tension
between nomadic peoples with wandering animals and settled
farmers with their crops.
I don’t think it’s all that complicated. Abel was superior in
righteousness to Cain, because Cain conceived wickedness in
his heart. After all, does not God say to Cain, “If you do well,
will you not be accepted?”
Abel stands out in our minds as a figure of relative
innocence and exceptional goodness. Yes, anyone who knows
the Bible knows Abel.
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But who remembers Seth?! He’s the other one . . . the one
that turned out all right. He’s ordinary in the literal meaning
of the word: “of the usual order.” Nothing more is said of him
than this: “To Seth was born a son, and he called him Enosh.”
That’s it! – his singular accomplishment insofar as we know.
But to his parents, Seth awakened a new hope. Eve
remembered the promise about the seed of the woman bruising
the head of the serpent; but with Abel dead and Cain in exile,
how could that promise be fulfilled? The future, in a word,
lay with Seth. “And Adam knew his wife again, and she bore a
son, and called him Seth.”
Seth’s obscurity is a reminder of our own obscurity. When
I read a story from out of the past, I have a way of saying to
myself, “Well, if I were in this story, which one would I be?” In
this story, I can see myself only as Seth. Oh sure, I have
known anger, but never to the point of murder; and I have
occasionally had a flash or two of goodness, never too longsustained, mind you. But I never have been so devout or so
obedient or so exceptionally committed as to arouse the
jealousy of someone else. In short, if I am like anyone in this
story, I am most like Seth.
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There is a striving for greatness that gives rise to legitimate
ambition; but there is also a striving for greatness that gives
rise to an irrational passion for that which can never be. Let’s
face it: most of us are destined to be children of Seth. There
are lots of singers in Florida, but how many are really known?
Does that mean that all the rest should go to bed tossing with
envy, jealousy and discontent? There are thousands of
philosophy professors in America teaching eager students; but
the philosophers you can name, you can count on one hand.
What about the others? Are they to sulk in resentful
obscurity? Only a few economists get invited up to
Washington to dust of their crystal ball and tell what’s coming
up. Does that mean that all the rest should feel sorry for
themselves?
Hundreds of actors and actresses are in the country, but
most people, were you to ask them, could name but a few.
There must be 300,000 nurses earnestly and compassionately
at work in our time, but if you ask for the name of a nurse,
“Florence Nightingale” is the name you are going to get.
And so it is with Seth, who comes upon the scene, marries,
sires, and dies. And that’s pretty much the way it is for most
of us as well. Most of us are never going to make it into
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“Who’s Who.” But the real question is whether or not this
fact, indisputable and largely unchangeable, is going to make
us permanently discontent with our lot in life. Or, to put it in
more positive terms, one of the things I’m hoping today is that
we will come to trust our own sample of life – you know, the
part that we ourselves experience. We are led by advertisers
to believe that real life is going on somewhere else – somewhere
other than right here. It isn’t, you know; so trust your own
sample of life.
Let me tell you a little story about a fellow named Harry,
who just had returned from a pleasant week at Atlantic City.
One of his friends said, “Missed you, Harry; where have you
been?”
“Oh,” Harry replied, “I was just over to Atlantic City for a
little vacation . . .”
“Atlantic City,” comes the reply; “Did you get to Charlie’s
Fish House? Everyone who goes to Atlantic City goes to
Charlie’s. Why if you didn’t go to Charlie’s Fish House, you
just haven’t been to Atlantic City!”
And Harry replies, “No, I must have missed that.”
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And another friend comes along: “Hi, Harry where you
been?”
“Oh, I just got back from Atlantic City.”
“Atlantic City! You went to one of the big shows on the
boardwalk, didn’t you? Why, everybody who goes to Atlantic
City goes to one of the big shows on the boardwalk. If you
haven’t done that, you just haven’t been to Atlantic City!”
“No,” replies Harry; “I didn’t do that either.”
“Well, then, you rented a bicycle and rode out on the beach
at dawn, didn’t you? Everybody who goes to Atlantic City
rides out on the beach to greet the dawn. Why, if you didn’t
do that, you just haven’t been to Atlantic City . . .!”
“No,” says Harry; “you see, I was only there for a week . . .”
And another friend chimes in, “Bet you dropped a few
dollars in one of the casinos, huh, Harry? Everybody who
goes to Atlantic City goes to the casinos. Why, if you didn’t go
to the casinos, you just haven’t been to Atlantic City!”
And Harry says, “No, I didn’t go to the casinos. . .”
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And a few minutes later another friend comes along and
says, “Hi, Harry! Missed you; where you been?”
And Harry says, “I ain’t been nowhere, and I ain’t done
nothing!”
Surely you see what I’m getting at. Harry didn’t have
sense enough to trust his own slice of life. I’m afraid that’s
true for more of us than just Harry.
The truth is that the best parts of any of our stories never
get written down at all – family life, patient service, quiet
endurance, the training up of our children, resistance to evil.
Shakespeare knew this when he penned:
When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes
I, all alone, beweep my outcast fate
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate;
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising
Haply I think on thee – and then my soul
Like as to lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven’s gate.
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
[Sonnet XXIX]
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“And Adam knew his wife again, and she bore a son and named
him Seth.”
Seth is a reminder of the importance of ordinary people in
the plan of God. You see, Seth provided the continuity. As a
youngster – you may not believe this, but it is true – I had to
learn what some folks call “the church line” from Adam right
on down the list: Adam, Seth, Enosh, Kenan, Mahalalel, Jared,
Lamech . . . all the way down through Noah to Abraham.
Looking back, it seems like the Sunday school teacher was a
little short of material that morning, but anyway in that line
Seth is a link. He was a carrier of the promise without which,
humanly speaking, the covenant would not have come to be.
After the murder, God started over with Seth. God always
seems to be doing that sort of thing.
There is a strange perversity with this God, who chooses the
unspectacular Seth and an assortment of ragtag nomads to be
a servant people. Every prophet in the Old Testament is an
unlikely choice: they’re either too old or too young, not
articulate, from the wrong class or tribe, or unwilling to go for
some other reason. And in the New Testament God chooses a
stable instead of a palace as the birthplace for the king of
kings. Jesus chooses a cross rather than a throne as the climax
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for his earthly ministry. And as for the Church, well, as our
call to worship clearly stated: “Not many wise, not many
powerful, not many of noble birth” were called. [1Corinthians 1:26-31]
One of our problems may be that we are caught up in the
“star system;” we’re looking for some big personality to come
bail us out. When we think back through history, our eyes
alight on various prominent figures, and we think, “Where are
such folk when we really need them?” I mean, when I scan
the political horizon, I’m hardly inspired to sing the Doxology!
Well, maybe God has given our age over to Seth. Maybe
God is withholding that “star” from us to make us go deep
down within ourselves to develop our own capacities.
How many university presidents can you name? How
many preachers? How many heads of corporations? Used to
be, even within the last generation, you could have named a
whole list in any one of those fields! We instinctively have
looked to illustrious leaders for our deliverance. But this is
the age of Seth! God has committed the ordering of life to
ordinary people – ordinary like you, ordinary like me.
Some time – not during this sermon – some other time, look
through the hymnal and see all the hymns attributed to
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“anonymous”: O Come, All Ye Faithful; The First Noel; Jesus,
the Very Thought of Thee; Jesus, Thou Joy of Loving Hearts.
Seth wrote them all!
To paraphrase Lincoln: God must have loved Seth to have
made so many of him . . . so many of her.
So, who is Seth? Seth is the one who is always there, but
seldom noticed. His views on life are never sought.
She will read the news, not make it.
Seth pays his bills on time and stays out of trouble with the
law.
She is the upstairs neighbor who minds her own business
but who always has a friendly smile for you.
His life passes like the most regular of verbs: punctually at
work five days a week; reliably home each evening, save for his
bowling night; keenly interested in his children, and
unfashionably faithful to his wife.
She is the woman in the pew across from you who can count
on one hand the number of Sundays she has missed. She is
seldom swept away by a politician, but she always votes.
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Seth seldom rides in an airplane. He would be lost at a
really fancy restaurant, but can get excited about the idea of
taking the kids and the Mrs. to the beach for a picnic. His
clothes are undistinguished, and his travels are few, but when
somebody is sick or out of work, he always pitches in a couple
of bucks to help out.
Who is Seth? Seth is the almost anonymous one.
Her demands on life are few, but her joy runs deep.
And when he passes from this world, few will notice. But
when he enters on the other side, it will be to the sound of
trumpets and the singing of the heavenly host. For to such
belongs the realm of God. Amen.