“The Road to Dothan: How God’s Will Finds Us”

Seattle Pacific University (Chapel), March 30, 2004

 The Rev. Dr. Frank Anthony Spina

[Genesis 37:1-17]
 

            I like movies.  In fact, I like them so much I pay attention to the credits.  As the credits roll, you get an idea of how many people are actually involved in making a movie.  It’s quite impressive.  But there’s another aspect of the credits that I find fascinating: the listing of minor characters.  Unlike main characters, where the movie character’s name and the name of the actor or actress are side by side, minor characters are identified only by role.  A sample: (1) Angry Taxi Driver; (2) Second Reporter in Coffee Shop; (3) Old Woman with Babushka; (4) Fruit Stand Operator; (5) Cop on Scene; (6) Fat Man in Elevator.  You get the idea.  No wonder these folk are called “bit” players.  I suppose the only thing worse than being billed this way is to be an “extra” in a “cast of thousands,” in which case not even your role is mentioned.

            When I study biblical stories it’s hard for me not to think of bit characters in the movies.  That’s because there are so many minor roles in the Bible’s narratives.  Granted, when we think of Bible stories we think of the famous people who get star billing.  Even in a day when we can’t count on a great deal of biblical literacy, most would have some inkling of Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, Abraham and Sarah, David and Bath-Sheba, or Peter and Paul.  But if we mention some other names, we draw a blank: Shiphrah and Puah, Jael and Sisera, Ehud and Eglon, Aquila and Priscilla.  These stump us every time in Bible Trivial Pursuit.

            Still, at least these folk have names.  What about those that don’t?  How demeaning can you get?  Can you imagine bragging to someone that you are part of a biblical story but your name was not given?  The response would be, “Yeah, right!  How did they list you in the credits?  Bystander?  Traveler?  Servant?  Not very compelling, huh?  Talk about undermining self-esteem!

            However, it turns out that many nameless characters in biblical stories have important roles—sometimes decisive ones.  Think of angels, only a few of which ever get names.  Yet, being an angel seems to be a big deal.  Then again, Samson’s Momma gets a whole chapter devoted to her, yet her name is never provided.  Jacob wrestled all night with Someone whose name he demanded to know.  No only was he not told the name, the One with whom he wrestled changed Jacob’s name to something else!  The biblical text only refers to this strange wrestler as “a man.”  Think of the credits: “Man Who Wrestled with Jacob.”

            I want to talk this morning about one of the Bible’s bit players, one who makes a fleeting appearance in one of the most famous of Bible stories: The story of Joseph.  We might read this story over and over, barely noticing this man.  No wonder—he only gets three verses.  But, strangely, what he does in these three verses is, on the one hand, hardly worth mentioning, and, on the other hand, absolutely crucial.

            Remember how the Joseph story begins?  Joseph is the next youngest of Jacob’s twelve sons and one daughter.  The story gets off on a bad foot in terms of family dynamics, for two reasons.  First off, the family business is sheep herding and Joseph was foolish enough to tell his Dad that his brothers were not doing a good job.  Also, Jacob was partial to Joseph, loving him more than his other children and giving him a special garment to express his affection.  To put the matter politely, the brothers were less than pleased.  Making matters worse, Joseph had a couple of dreams which did not require a Freudian psychologist to interpret—the point of the dreams was that one day Joseph would be in a position of authority over his entire family.  Naturally, this infuriated the brothers all the more; in fact, even Jacob was a little put out with Joseph’s second dream.

            One day the brothers leave home to pasture the flocks in nearby Shechem.  This was a break, actually, because they were so livid, who knew what might happen if they stayed around home with their little brat brother?  Then, demonstrating that Jacob may have been one of the dumbest or most insensitive parents ever, he decides to send Joseph to check up on the brothers and the sheep.  Joseph is no Einstein either, for he goes merrily to do the errand without a peep of protest.

            When Joseph gets to Shechem, his brothers are nowhere to be found.  That’s when our nameless bit player steps onto the stage.  The text is cryptic: “A man found him and, look, he was wandering in the field.”  Since he had not run into his brothers, Joseph was wandering around looking for them.  Curiously, here he is looking to find someone, but he is himself found by someone else.  By a man.  Who is this man?  A local farmer?  A merchant?  Someone out for a stroll?  The text is silent.  He is simply “a man.”  Imagine the credits: “Man in Field in Shechem.”

            But the significance of what this man does is indirectly proportionate to the ordinary way he is introduced.  What does he do?  He asks a question: “What are you looking for?”  Apparently, the “wandering” tipped off the man that Joseph was at a loss.  After all, that’s how we usually use the verb “wander.”  It’s not a verb of purpose and intention, it’s a verb suggesting aimlessness, frustration, searching.  It is, by the way, the same verb that describes what the people of Israel did for forty years before they got to the land God had promised them.  More than once I’ve said to friends, “Sorry to be late.  We got lost.  We wandered around for an hour before we stopped to ask for directions.”  No one would ever say to a friend desperate for help, “Don’t worry.  I’ll be right there.  I’m going to wander over immediately.”  Wandering is slow, meandering, hap-hazard—it is not precise, direct, resolute.  Joseph is wandering.  The man intrudes, “What are you looking for?”

            “I’m looking for my brothers—tell me where they’re pasturing.”  Somehow, Joseph assumes that this man will have a clue about his brothers’ whereabouts.  Why?  Who knows?  But there’s no one else to ask.  Besides, this man does pose the question.  It turns out the man knows where the brothers are—he had overheard them say where they were going.  So the answer is straightforward, “They left from here, for I heard them say, ‘Let’s go to Dothan’.”  That’s it: one appearance, three verses, two lines, consisting of nine words.  Then he’s gone.  We never hear of or from him again.

            So Joseph goes to Dothan.  Now, Dothan as a geographical site is about as jazzy as the non-descript man in this scene.  Who ever heard of Dothan?  The Bible has great places: Jerusalem, Sheba, Samaria, Judea.  But Dothan?  Can you imagine a song, “I left my heart in Dothan?”  “It’s a long way to Dothan?”  “Born in Dothan?”  “We’re Marching to Dothan?”  But in this snippet of the story, we hear of Dothan.  And this “man.”  And both made all the difference in the world.

            Why?  Well, it’s quite simple.  Joseph went to Dothan, his still fuming brothers sold him to a caravan headed for Egypt, he was sold into slavery in Egypt, later he was imprisoned on trumped up charges, then became prime minister of agriculture because he helped the Pharaoh understand two dreams he had, and finally in that capacity he saved his family from a famine some years later.  This was some outcome for a kid that only figured he was going to Dothan to see how his brothers were doing with the family sheep business.  That’s a life story right there.  But, in fact, this is only a small part of where this road to Dothan led.

            Consider this.  If Joseph had not gone to Dothan, his brothers would not have sold him into slavery in Egypt, he would not have been in position to save his family from starvation, his family would not have stayed in Egypt and thrived, it would not have grown so much that it seemed a threat to a subsequent Pharaoh who “knew not Joseph” and therefore enslaved a family that had now become a people, God would not have saved this people from the house of bondage with a mighty hand and outstretched arm, there would have been no Moses and no law given at Sinai, no Promised Land would have been occupied, no judges would have emerged, there would have been no kings of Judah and Israel, there would have been no Exile from which God eventually rescued the people once again, there would have been no Restoration, no Judaism, this “People of the Book,” naturally there would have been no Israel and no Messiah, thus there would have been no Jesus and no Christianity, there would have been no history of the synagogue or church, there would have been no Holy Roman Empire and no Roman Catholic Church, there would have been no Protestant Reformation and no 18^th century Evangelical Revival in England under John Wesley, which means there would have been no Holiness Movement in America and therefore no Free Methodist Church, which means there would be no Seattle Pacific University, and certainly no chapel service, and none of us would be here this morning.  All this because some “man” said to a wandering Joseph: “What are you looking for?”  I’m here to tell you that as roles go this one is huge—I don’t care how fast the man disappeared or how few words he spoke or what his name was.  That was one doozy of a question!

            This man took part in what I call a “pattern of providence.”  It does not matter that he was not aware of it or set out to do it.  His question was most likely innocent: “What are you looking for?”  As importantly, Joseph too was involved in this “pattern of providence.”  And he was likely no more conscious of this than the man was.  Even when Joseph had his famous dreams, which in retrospect were so predictive of his future, we are never told that God was behind the dreams or that Joseph believed they had a divine origin.  Likewise, when Joseph went to Dothan and the events affecting him tragically unfolded, you would have had a tough time telling him that he was fulfilling God’s will.

            Why?  Well, he no sooner got to Dothan than he found himself stuffed into a well.  Plus, before the one brother with any decency had a chance to rescue him, the others sold him summarily to a caravan headed a long way from his home.  It doesn’t get any better, for he is purchased—purchased, mind you—by the captain of Pharaoh’s guard.  When you’re in a pit, it’s hard to think that this is the future God has in mind for you.  When you’re bought by a caravan, the words “praise the Lord” do not come readily to your lips.  When an officer buys you and has complete control of you, you’re not likely to say, “Isn’t it wonderful the way God works out things for the best.”

            Even when Joseph gets a smidgeon of a break, it turns out sour.  This captain, Potiphar by name, was impressed with Joseph and put him in charge of the household.  If you have to be a slave, you might as well be one with a little responsibility.  But in a flash this situation blew up in Joseph’s face.  Because he spurned the blandishments of Potiphar’s wife, she set him up and he was jailed.  Once more he makes the best of a horrible situation by being put in charge of the other prisoners—it’s not much, but it beats the laundry room or the license plate factory.

            Where was God in all this?  Here’s how the text answers this question: God was with Joseph (Gen. 39:2, 21, 23).  That’s it.  We’re not told how God was with Joseph, or even if he was aware of it.  Those around him picked up on something, but it is not clear what they saw: was he extraordinarily clever, obviously precocious, stunningly charismatic, or did he glow in the dark?  Every other indication of providence in this story is in retrospect, at least for the characters involved.  In fact, Joseph did not even realize the point of his earlier dreams until his brothers bowed before him in Egypt (Gen. 42:9).  When God finally takes an active role and speaks to Joseph’s father Jacob, the main events of the story have been long since set in motion.  To give some idea of the theological “take” on the story, we have to pay attention to Joseph’s words on two occasions.

            The first is when he reveals himself to his brothers and announces that “God sent me before you to preserve life” (Gen. 45:5-8).  The second is when his brothers are afraid of Joseph’s revenge and the death of their father.  That’s when Joseph alleviates their fear by saying, “What you did you meant for evil, but God meant it for good” (Gen. 50:20).  This is entirely retrospective.  Did Joseph think this in the pit?  When the caravan was packing him up for the journey to Egypt?  When he was on the auction block?  When he was thrown into prison unjustly?  Providence was seen after the fact, not before.

            But let’s not focus so much on Joseph that we lose sight of our nameless bit character, the man who inserted himself into Joseph’s life with a seemingly innocuous, “What are you looking for?”  Recall that this man found Joseph.  He didn’t even know he was lost.  He was not yet aware that he had to continue his journey.  He had no clue what was in store for him, not remotely.  Even his dreams were of no immediate help.  People were supposed to be bowing down to him; instead, as a slave he was bowing down to others.  This does not seem to be the future Joseph envisioned when he first had his dreams. 

            It’s one thing to be found when you know you’re lost.  It’s quite another to be found when you think you know where you’re going.  The man found Joseph and asked him the simplest of questions.  From the perspective of the Bible’s metastory, that finding and that question changed Joseph’s life, his family’s life, Egypt’s life, the chosen people Israel’s life, the history of Judaism and Christianity, and most of the history of the world.  That was some finding and some question.  It could not have been more innocent.  It could not have been more momentous.

            There are many different “patterns of providence” in the biblical narrative.  Not all these patterns are like the one that shows up in the Joseph story.  In this case, I like to refer to the pattern as a “lurking providence.”  Sometimes, though, God shows up and gives explicit instructions, or fires up a bush, or thunders through a prophet, or hands down a law, or visits for dinner, or is in a pillar of fire or cloud, or crawls into a Jewish cradle, or climbs on a Roman cross.  There are many such patterns.  But the one manifest in the Joseph story, I dare say, is the one that most of us encounter most of the time.

            All we are doing is running some errand, performing some chore, working on some agenda, planning on some future, preparing for some eventuality, covering some contingency, exploiting some skill, indulging some interest, thinking a little ahead.  Metaphorically, we are doing nothing more dramatic than traveling toward Shechem.  But when we get there, we discover that what we thought we were looking for is not there.  Not always, but very often, we are found in just such a circumstance.  A man finds us.  Or a woman.  Maybe a parent.  Perhaps a professor.  On occasion a friend.  Sometimes a pastor.  Possibly, a stranger.  A little church, or a large one.  A congenial prayer group.  Here we are, happily and obliviously on our way when we all of a sudden get found—we didn’t even know we needed to be.  And then we get asked the question, “What are you looking for?”  After that, nothing is the same.

            Instead of staying in Shechem, we head for Dothan.  Joseph could not have anticipated what Dothan would mean in a million years.  A “lurking providence” would have to unfold, in its own time, in its own way.  For Joseph at the time, Dothan was merely where his brothers were.  In the end, it was where Providence was.  How could anything be the same any more?

            How does God do this?  I have no clue.  That’s not my job to know; nor is it anyone else’s.  This isn’t a matter of not knowing God’s will.  God’s will is emphatically knowable.  It is this: Love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength.  And love your neighbor as yourself.

            Everything else depends on who finds you, how you respond to the question, “What are you looking for?,” and what happens when you divert from Shechem to Dothan.  Few of us will encounter the sort of Dothan that Joseph did.  But a “lurking providence” may have much more in store for our personal Dothans than we could even imagine while we are wandering around waiting to be found.  God is an equal opportunity lurker.  And Dothan is more than one place on a map.  It is Providence waiting to happen.