Michaelmas 2008
(Genesis 28: 10-17; Ps 103: 19-22; Rev 12: 7-12; John 1: 47-51)
If you’re “on the edge”, you have an angel close at hand.
Jacob was on the edge. Jacob was on the run from his brother, who wanted to kill him. Jacob may have figured he had it coming—Jake had just scammed his brother and fooled his blind, dying father into giving Jake the whole inheritance. Jake was scared, alone, and on the run, feeling bad about himself if he had any conscience left at all. He’s alone in the desert, heading towards family he hadn’t even met. Bandits or wolves could have easily finished him off. On the borderland between broken past and hopeless future, Jacob’s a man on the edge.
But on the edge is where you can meet angels.
God is on the edge. The God of the Bible often can’t be heard when things are secure and settled. On the edge is where you may meet God.
On the edge, God speaks and nothing is the same again.
When God speaks, we learn that the nameless piece of ground on which we stand—desert sand, a lonely house, a car in traffic, a bus gazing out the window, the eyes of a stranger, the deafening silence of our heart—is the house of God. And there God gives a promise where there was no hope—we are heard, we are seen, and in ways we cannot imagine the promise of God is working in our lives. God is with us, God will not leave us, until every astounding promise has been fulfilled.
Jake wakes up, wakes from his hopeless sleep. Awe, and wonder, and even fear—his hopeless little life is not so little. His life is part of something grand in the heart and mind of a grant God. When we learn that, we have truly woken up.
That’s where we see the angels. The angels wake us from our hopeless, visionless sleep, and teach us about the holy ground which is our lives, which is our world. They see and they hear. They live with God and for God. They share our road as we seek to live with God and for God.
This is the season of the angels. This is the feast and this the season where we remember, with awe and wonder and gratitude, that we are not alone, that our lives are not little and pointless, that we are known and heard and seen and loved and that those wonderful promises—power from on high, participation in God’s own life, transformation, eternal life, dying and rising—are all ours, ours for the taking. They see, they listen, and they even struggle with us and for us in our struggle, as stupendous Michael went hand-to-hand with Lucifer the Morning Star before the dawn of time. And they wake us up, they open our eyes to the truth of our lives.
Nathaniel in the Gospel was on the edge, and he didn’t even know it. He was a seeker who didn’t think he’d find anything worthwhile. When have we given up seeking the deepest desire of our hearts? But the day that started so ordinary ends in wonders. Cynically Nathaniel agrees to see the rabbi who can’t be anyone worth seeing. But he finds more than he could have imagined. He finds one who sees and hears him even before Nathaniel knew he was even searching. He finds one in who’s eyes and presence are somehow all wonders. He finds one who speaks of the angels. Here I am. I’m the holy ground. I’m the voice and the promise. See me, hear me, share my life, and your life will be holy ground as well.
Have you ever been on the edge? Are you on the edge now? Is anyone you know on the edge? It may not be a dead end or a jump into nothing. It may be holy ground. You may see angels. You may see God. And you will learn that you are seen, you are heard, and you were never alone. You may want peace. But you may be given far more—new hope, new and transformed life.
archived musings and preachments
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Which version?
Proper 22 A 2008 (RCL)
(Exodus 16: 2-15; Ps 105: 1-6, 37-45; Phil 1: 21-30; Mt 20: 1-16)
Version one: the people of Israel moved majestically, triumphantly out of Egypt. Everyone worked together, everyone was happy. In front walked Moses, tall and strong and handsome and chiseled, thumping his staff on the ground as if he knew exactly where he was going. Sometimes there was a little trouble. Sometimes people got a little anxious, a little testy. But Moses would open his mouth and put on that God-voice, lifted up his staff with a well-muscled arm, and then everything would turn out just fine. Even when they ran out of food in the desert, we knew it was no sweat. It was all under control.
Here’s version two, same story:
Everyone is cranky, everyone is tired, everyone is scared. Everyone is full of doubt. Moses is stressed and fed up and scared too, scared that he’s this close to getting lynched. He wants out, out from in between these frightened angry people and a faceless, mysterious God. That God seems cranky and angry too, just like Dad on those long car trips—“We’ll get there when we get there! Don’t make me come back there!” Or maybe more like Mom in the kitchen at 4:15—“Can’t you see I’m busy? Dinner’s coming, you’ll just have to wait!”
Which version sounds more like the Bible we’re reading? Which version sounds more like the real community life we are living?
We may want our life together with Christ to be like Hollywood, with a great sound-track, clean white robes, and Charleton Heston or maybe Brad Pitt in charge. But that’s like wishing our family Christmas dinner to be just like the movies, where everyone sits down peacefully and listens to the youngest say the sweetest grace, and then all eat and talk and laugh because all the conflicts got resolved by 6:00 PM Christmas Eve. Family is a lot messier than that. So is church, so is Christian community. But real, messy life is the ground where God meets us.
In today’s story, do you notice how nostalgic people are?
Everyone is sure that things were so much better before. Everyone wants to go back to Egypt, because “Remember the food? It was good!” Nostalgia is the best sauce there is. The past is almost always better. We forget our slavery. In this viewpoint, God is always back there, where we think life was so much more orderly. There is no way that God can be with us now, because now is so anxious and so unresolved. And there is no way that God can make a future for us. God cannot be trusted to do that.
So let’s go back. Turn the clock back, to Egypt, or to 1964, or to when we were much younger. That’s the way to worship the gods of Egypt. The gods of Egypt want their worshippers to return to how things were, and will teach us the proper ceremonies to keep things the same.
But the God of the Bible is present now and opens a future. God is here with us. We may not see the path. We make the path by walking. But God leads and God provides, and God promises new life for us even as we hash things out together and with God as honestly as we can.
Do we believe that God is with us here and now? Are we ready to walk our own path? Do we embrace the new future that is promised? Are we a community that would rather return to Egypt? Or do we choose to follow the God who leads in the midst of all our doubts, all our fear, all our human truth?
(Exodus 16: 2-15; Ps 105: 1-6, 37-45; Phil 1: 21-30; Mt 20: 1-16)
Version one: the people of Israel moved majestically, triumphantly out of Egypt. Everyone worked together, everyone was happy. In front walked Moses, tall and strong and handsome and chiseled, thumping his staff on the ground as if he knew exactly where he was going. Sometimes there was a little trouble. Sometimes people got a little anxious, a little testy. But Moses would open his mouth and put on that God-voice, lifted up his staff with a well-muscled arm, and then everything would turn out just fine. Even when they ran out of food in the desert, we knew it was no sweat. It was all under control.
Here’s version two, same story:
Everyone is cranky, everyone is tired, everyone is scared. Everyone is full of doubt. Moses is stressed and fed up and scared too, scared that he’s this close to getting lynched. He wants out, out from in between these frightened angry people and a faceless, mysterious God. That God seems cranky and angry too, just like Dad on those long car trips—“We’ll get there when we get there! Don’t make me come back there!” Or maybe more like Mom in the kitchen at 4:15—“Can’t you see I’m busy? Dinner’s coming, you’ll just have to wait!”
Which version sounds more like the Bible we’re reading? Which version sounds more like the real community life we are living?
We may want our life together with Christ to be like Hollywood, with a great sound-track, clean white robes, and Charleton Heston or maybe Brad Pitt in charge. But that’s like wishing our family Christmas dinner to be just like the movies, where everyone sits down peacefully and listens to the youngest say the sweetest grace, and then all eat and talk and laugh because all the conflicts got resolved by 6:00 PM Christmas Eve. Family is a lot messier than that. So is church, so is Christian community. But real, messy life is the ground where God meets us.
In today’s story, do you notice how nostalgic people are?
Everyone is sure that things were so much better before. Everyone wants to go back to Egypt, because “Remember the food? It was good!” Nostalgia is the best sauce there is. The past is almost always better. We forget our slavery. In this viewpoint, God is always back there, where we think life was so much more orderly. There is no way that God can be with us now, because now is so anxious and so unresolved. And there is no way that God can make a future for us. God cannot be trusted to do that.
So let’s go back. Turn the clock back, to Egypt, or to 1964, or to when we were much younger. That’s the way to worship the gods of Egypt. The gods of Egypt want their worshippers to return to how things were, and will teach us the proper ceremonies to keep things the same.
But the God of the Bible is present now and opens a future. God is here with us. We may not see the path. We make the path by walking. But God leads and God provides, and God promises new life for us even as we hash things out together and with God as honestly as we can.
Do we believe that God is with us here and now? Are we ready to walk our own path? Do we embrace the new future that is promised? Are we a community that would rather return to Egypt? Or do we choose to follow the God who leads in the midst of all our doubts, all our fear, all our human truth?
Sunday, September 14, 2008
What did you see?
Holy Cross 2008
(Isaiah 45: 21-25; Ps 98: 1-4; Gal 6: 14-18; John 12: 31-36a)
“What did you see?” The old man asks the question. The question brings you back to that strange, haunting night.
You were led into a dark room. You took off your clothes. You were led into dark waters. “The mystery” a voice chanted. “The mystery...” You stood still while a robed figure waded towards you. “Water only,” said a voice. “Water only, but now changed.” The robed figure held up a large object, difficult to see in detail. It is plunged into the water, then is held dripping before your eyes. “Water made sweet by God.” You gazed with wonder. Your eyes adjust to the dark, and you stare. “What did you see?” the old man gently asks again.
You answer, “I saw a rough piece of wood.” You saw, and you will always remember.
That’s an old story: St. Ambrose, talking about Baptism rites in the 4th Century. Now THAT’S extreme Baptism! We’ve become far too tame.
Today we also remember our Baptism, and on this Feast of the Holy Cross we remember the wood. A hunk of wood. It was a hunk of wood that Moses threw into the foul and bitter water in the desert to make it sweet. And it is the wood of the cross of Jesus, thrown into the foulness of the world and the bitterness of our lives. that re-claims us and the world from all that poisons, all that kills. “What did you see?” when you embraced faith over and over again through all the seasons and struggles of your life? Did you see the roughness of the wood? The wood: the sign of rejection and death which has become the instrument of life. Here, friends, is God’s answer to the cruelty of the world and the struggle of our lives.
Many of us were raised with dysfunctional religious backgrounds, and we are tempted to think of the cross as a message of masochism, of capricious pain that a capricious God demands we bear. This is not the scandal of the cross as the Gospel presents it, as old Ambrose taught it. Think astounding, searing love. Think outrageous gift. Think harrowing gateway to indescribable life.
We stare in wonder. We shudder at the blunt truth of it. Our hearts open in silent gratitude. And we boast.
Boast? That’s an odd thing to do about wood that expresses execution and shame and death. I’ve always wondered about Paul “boasting” about the cross of Jesus, as he says today.
When we boast, we name something that gives us a sense of worth. When we boast, we name our victories. When we boast, we name something that is unique about us, that makes us stand out from everyone else.
When Paul wrote today’s letter, he had already lived a despised life. He had been cast out of the Judaism he knew and loved. He had been rejected and beaten and stoned. Paul wasn’t even treated well by many in the early Church—he was too outrageous, he spoke too boldly about Christ representing a radical break from all history and even all previous faith. And he was way too liberal about letting in all those Gentiles!
But Paul wanted to boast in the Cross of Jesus. He wanted the insults of the world to be his praise. He wanted the rejection of the world, even the rejection of those who felt themselves religious and devout, to be his reason for pride. He wanted the humiliation of Jesus to be his victory.
Do we boast of the Cross? How do we do that? I’m still figuring that out. But here are some incomplete thoughts.
If we boast of the Cross, then our lives are meant to look and feel different. If we boast of the Cross, then we do not buy into what the world calls victory, what the world calls worthwhile, and WHO the world calls worthwhile.
If we boast of the Cross, then we stare in wonder each day at the rough wood of the mad, upside-down logic of God who declared the poor blessed, the rich sad, and those who come last as those who really come first.
If we boast of the Cross, then our very lives proclaim the outrageous hope of an outrageous God.
(Isaiah 45: 21-25; Ps 98: 1-4; Gal 6: 14-18; John 12: 31-36a)
“What did you see?” The old man asks the question. The question brings you back to that strange, haunting night.
You were led into a dark room. You took off your clothes. You were led into dark waters. “The mystery” a voice chanted. “The mystery...” You stood still while a robed figure waded towards you. “Water only,” said a voice. “Water only, but now changed.” The robed figure held up a large object, difficult to see in detail. It is plunged into the water, then is held dripping before your eyes. “Water made sweet by God.” You gazed with wonder. Your eyes adjust to the dark, and you stare. “What did you see?” the old man gently asks again.
You answer, “I saw a rough piece of wood.” You saw, and you will always remember.
That’s an old story: St. Ambrose, talking about Baptism rites in the 4th Century. Now THAT’S extreme Baptism! We’ve become far too tame.
Today we also remember our Baptism, and on this Feast of the Holy Cross we remember the wood. A hunk of wood. It was a hunk of wood that Moses threw into the foul and bitter water in the desert to make it sweet. And it is the wood of the cross of Jesus, thrown into the foulness of the world and the bitterness of our lives. that re-claims us and the world from all that poisons, all that kills. “What did you see?” when you embraced faith over and over again through all the seasons and struggles of your life? Did you see the roughness of the wood? The wood: the sign of rejection and death which has become the instrument of life. Here, friends, is God’s answer to the cruelty of the world and the struggle of our lives.
Many of us were raised with dysfunctional religious backgrounds, and we are tempted to think of the cross as a message of masochism, of capricious pain that a capricious God demands we bear. This is not the scandal of the cross as the Gospel presents it, as old Ambrose taught it. Think astounding, searing love. Think outrageous gift. Think harrowing gateway to indescribable life.
We stare in wonder. We shudder at the blunt truth of it. Our hearts open in silent gratitude. And we boast.
Boast? That’s an odd thing to do about wood that expresses execution and shame and death. I’ve always wondered about Paul “boasting” about the cross of Jesus, as he says today.
When we boast, we name something that gives us a sense of worth. When we boast, we name our victories. When we boast, we name something that is unique about us, that makes us stand out from everyone else.
When Paul wrote today’s letter, he had already lived a despised life. He had been cast out of the Judaism he knew and loved. He had been rejected and beaten and stoned. Paul wasn’t even treated well by many in the early Church—he was too outrageous, he spoke too boldly about Christ representing a radical break from all history and even all previous faith. And he was way too liberal about letting in all those Gentiles!
But Paul wanted to boast in the Cross of Jesus. He wanted the insults of the world to be his praise. He wanted the rejection of the world, even the rejection of those who felt themselves religious and devout, to be his reason for pride. He wanted the humiliation of Jesus to be his victory.
Do we boast of the Cross? How do we do that? I’m still figuring that out. But here are some incomplete thoughts.
If we boast of the Cross, then our lives are meant to look and feel different. If we boast of the Cross, then we do not buy into what the world calls victory, what the world calls worthwhile, and WHO the world calls worthwhile.
If we boast of the Cross, then we stare in wonder each day at the rough wood of the mad, upside-down logic of God who declared the poor blessed, the rich sad, and those who come last as those who really come first.
If we boast of the Cross, then our very lives proclaim the outrageous hope of an outrageous God.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Moving Day
Proper 22 A 2008
(Exodus 12: 1-14; Ps 149; Rom 13: 8-14; Mt 18: 15-20)
The most important story in the Bible is moving day.
Moves are stressful. Most of us don’t like to move. Most of us pack heavy. We all carry things with us that we are sure we cannot live without. Once we were in such a hurry that we packed our garbage. When we first drove out here, the moving van did not arrive until three weeks later. As the days went on and the house felt airy and open, I dreaded the arrival of the truck and all that stuff that we knew we did not really need.
Moving day Old Testament-style is edgier and scarier than that. The Hebrews were hopeless captives of a cruel and powerful empire and a vicious king. To stay meant slavery. To leave was risking death by the king’s soldiers or death in the desert.
But enslaved people, hopeless people, had heard hope spoken. Trapped people were challenged to believe in a God who wished them alive and free in a new land.
A cost had to be paid. The God who frees struck the enslavers hard. Blood was spilled. The lambs were killed and served for dinner a special way. In fact, the food was served standing up. No time for bread to rise. No time to eat sitting or lying down all cozy with your shoes off. Get your running shoes laced up, your backpack ready. The people of God are on the move.
So if we are the people of God, we are on the move.
Often we come to church or to faith itself expecting a firm place to stand, expecting something solid and predictable, something changeless in a rapidly-changing world, in our rapidly-changing lives. But in a few moments I will say “Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us” and you will hopefully respond, “Let us keep the feast.” Each time we gather for Mass, we celebrate our own Passover, our own moving day from death to life. How can we “keep the feast”?
God may not be predictable, but God can be trusted. We may rely on God for this: God wishes to free us from all our slaveries. God has paid a terrible price by providing the lamb for the Passover himself. The lamb is God’s beloved Son. As we eat the Christian Passover today, we say that we shall keep the feast. So pack up, and pack light. Don’t put off the move. Get ready for the journey and be ready to set out where God will lead. God will be the road, the journey, and the journey’s end. If we’re bored or unimpressed with the invitation of God today, then perhaps we need to listen more deeply. Listen—to the God who calls, to our own hearts which hunger for more, to the voice of the world which needs light-footed pilgrims on the move for God.
I have been away for four months, and I am glad to be back. But if anyone is glad I am back so that “things can go back to normal”, I hope that I will disappoint you. I want the remainder of my life and of my time here as rector of Saints Peter and Paul to be a journey-time, a moving-day. I want to celebrate the Passover of the Lord alert to the new thing that God is doing in our midst and in my own life, and to be light-footed enough to respond. We are called together to marvelous things, things we cannot understand yet but that God has in store for us. We are called to be the free people of God, to sing and to celebrate our freedom and our Liberator in our midst. I am not sure yet what that will mean for us all, but of one thing I am sure. Now is the time, now is our call, now the price paid, now the dinner served in a hurry. Now is the journey, so pack light and don’t put the garbage on the truck.
(Exodus 12: 1-14; Ps 149; Rom 13: 8-14; Mt 18: 15-20)
The most important story in the Bible is moving day.
Moves are stressful. Most of us don’t like to move. Most of us pack heavy. We all carry things with us that we are sure we cannot live without. Once we were in such a hurry that we packed our garbage. When we first drove out here, the moving van did not arrive until three weeks later. As the days went on and the house felt airy and open, I dreaded the arrival of the truck and all that stuff that we knew we did not really need.
Moving day Old Testament-style is edgier and scarier than that. The Hebrews were hopeless captives of a cruel and powerful empire and a vicious king. To stay meant slavery. To leave was risking death by the king’s soldiers or death in the desert.
But enslaved people, hopeless people, had heard hope spoken. Trapped people were challenged to believe in a God who wished them alive and free in a new land.
A cost had to be paid. The God who frees struck the enslavers hard. Blood was spilled. The lambs were killed and served for dinner a special way. In fact, the food was served standing up. No time for bread to rise. No time to eat sitting or lying down all cozy with your shoes off. Get your running shoes laced up, your backpack ready. The people of God are on the move.
So if we are the people of God, we are on the move.
Often we come to church or to faith itself expecting a firm place to stand, expecting something solid and predictable, something changeless in a rapidly-changing world, in our rapidly-changing lives. But in a few moments I will say “Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us” and you will hopefully respond, “Let us keep the feast.” Each time we gather for Mass, we celebrate our own Passover, our own moving day from death to life. How can we “keep the feast”?
God may not be predictable, but God can be trusted. We may rely on God for this: God wishes to free us from all our slaveries. God has paid a terrible price by providing the lamb for the Passover himself. The lamb is God’s beloved Son. As we eat the Christian Passover today, we say that we shall keep the feast. So pack up, and pack light. Don’t put off the move. Get ready for the journey and be ready to set out where God will lead. God will be the road, the journey, and the journey’s end. If we’re bored or unimpressed with the invitation of God today, then perhaps we need to listen more deeply. Listen—to the God who calls, to our own hearts which hunger for more, to the voice of the world which needs light-footed pilgrims on the move for God.
I have been away for four months, and I am glad to be back. But if anyone is glad I am back so that “things can go back to normal”, I hope that I will disappoint you. I want the remainder of my life and of my time here as rector of Saints Peter and Paul to be a journey-time, a moving-day. I want to celebrate the Passover of the Lord alert to the new thing that God is doing in our midst and in my own life, and to be light-footed enough to respond. We are called together to marvelous things, things we cannot understand yet but that God has in store for us. We are called to be the free people of God, to sing and to celebrate our freedom and our Liberator in our midst. I am not sure yet what that will mean for us all, but of one thing I am sure. Now is the time, now is our call, now the price paid, now the dinner served in a hurry. Now is the journey, so pack light and don’t put the garbage on the truck.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Sermon for August 31st - Tamara Yates
This week I’d like us to take a look at the Old Testament story of Moses and the Burning Bush. This is such a classic story, a Sunday School favorite, that we are particularly susceptible to missing it’s subtleties. When you think you know a story really well is actually when it has the most power to surprise you. So let’s dig in and see what we find.
As the curtain rises, we see Moses shepherding the flock of his father-in-law. For a brief recap, let’s recall that Moses after being raised by Pharoah’s daughter and growing up in the palace, went on to kill an Egyptian who was beating up a Hebrew and subsequently fled Egypt. Now, he is living a far more mundane existence, looking after sheep. He wanders beyond the wilderness, though, and comes perhaps unwittingly to the mountain of God. There he sees the most peculiar thing: a bush that is burning, but nevertheless remains intact. Flames are surrounding it, but not one twig disappears. Nor does it seem to be spreading to other plants and wildlife, with the typically destructive force of fire. It is blazing, but not consumed or consuming. Notice what Moses does--he turns aside to get a closer look. You might be thinking, “well YEAH. If I saw a bush that was burning without being burned up, I’d stop to look at it too!” But DO we? My hunch is that we are surrounded by burning bushes if we have eyes to see them. All of creation is alive with the glory of God, but often we are too busy, too distracted, and maybe too cynical to see the flames licking the edges of our everyday experiences. But the text says, “When God saw that Moses had turned aside, God called to him, ‘Moses! Moses!’” What might Moses have lost had he hurried past that bush? Slow down and pay attention to the moments, the events, and the people in your life who seem to shimmer with a strange light. Turn aside and listen for what they have to tell you. Nothing less than freedom from slavery and suffering is at stake!
So God speaks to Moses and says, “I have seen the pain of my people, I have heard their cry, I know their suffering.” This is the language of intimacy. The Hebrew word for knowing, yada, is the same word used in Hebrew for lovemaking. This is not academic knowing, this is soul knowing. God is intimately connected with God’s people and longs to lead them out of suffering into a place of abundance and peace, a land of milk and honey. The strange part in all of this, shocking really, is that God needs Moses to accomplish this. Sure, with 3,000 years of retrospect, Moses looks like a great guy and I don’t think any of us would argue that God made a bad choice. But at the moment of the Burning Bush, there wasn’t a whole lot of evidence in his favor. I mean this is the guy that blew a virtually un-blowable insider position in the Egyptian political system because he got hot-headed and killed somebody. Then he runs to save his own skin and now he’s puttering around the desert working for his father-in-law. Let’s just say that his resume isn’t looking so hot at this particular moment in the story. And, to be fair, no-one is more aware of this than Moses, whose first response to this exciting job offer hand-delivered by the creator of the Universe is, Who me? Who am I to go to Pharoah and bring the people out of Israel? In fact this seems to be the standard response in all the prophetic call stories and I think it is one with which we can resonate. Today we might actually respond to such a call by saying, Who am I? I’m no Moses. But ironically enough that’s exactly what Moses thought. I am reminded of Teresa of Avila’s claim that God has no hands but ours. And that includes you, whoever you are, no matter how insignificant or incapable you might feel.
God speaks compassionately to Moses’ fear promising, I will be with you. That leads Moses to the next logical question, and who, precisely, are you? He’s smart enough to put this question in the mouths of the people he is going to rescue. Not that I have any concerns, here, but uh…what if they want to know your name? Moses turns out to be gutsier than he looks, asking God for some credentials, a character reference in the form of a name. God’s response, in Hebrew, is EHYEH ASHER EHYEH. Often translated, I am who I am it is probably more like I will be who I will be. This is the Divine Name revealed for the first time, and it does, in fact, tell us about the character of this Deity who promises to be with us. If you listen to it in Hebrew it sounds like wind, like spirit? Or maybe like breathing. God self-identifies with being, with what is at the deepest level of reality—beyond our illusions and our fears and our projections, God is the being that simply is, the Truth of reality with a capital T. It is always unfolding, always becoming and always being at the one and the same time.
None of us will ever grasp this AM-ness, this what is-ness completely. We’re not meant to, in that we are finite human beings. What we can do—no, what we are called to do, is to manifest it in our very partial, very incomplete human lives. When we do not manifest the unique expression of the Divine that wants to be revealed through us, we live in slavery. When we deny or prevent that manifestation of Divinity in others, we act as Pharoah. Each of us participates both in being slaves and in the enslavement of others. And all the while, God is calling for the liberation of God’s people. That’s us and it’s those we oppress, both by the evil that we do and the evil that is done our behalf. Who are we? We are the Israelites when we suffer the denial, the dismissal and the rejection of our unique expression in the world. We are Pharoah when we participate in and support systems that exploit and oppress other persons or groups as they seek to express their own full humanity. And we are Moses, in that God comes to each and every one of us, asking us to live into the fullness of God’s image imprinted uniquely onto our very souls, and beyond that to speak the Truth to power, standing up for the fullness of that image as it finds expression in our brothers and sisters.
At the heart of the story of the Burning Bush is nothing less than a revelation of the nature of God. But even more spectacular perhaps, is its revelation of the intimate connection between God and us piddly—or not so piddly—humans. This story points us toward a startling truth that each of us, together with all of creation, is called to manifest a particular aspect of God’s being-ness. It invites us to imagine a co-creative relationship with God that would turn us into something very much like the Burning Bush. We would blaze with the very fire of God, while still maintaining our identity in all of its wholeness and respecting the identities of others. Blazing, but not consumed and not consuming. If stepping into such a vision of your life feels impossible, don’t worry. You’re not alone…God will be with you.
As the curtain rises, we see Moses shepherding the flock of his father-in-law. For a brief recap, let’s recall that Moses after being raised by Pharoah’s daughter and growing up in the palace, went on to kill an Egyptian who was beating up a Hebrew and subsequently fled Egypt. Now, he is living a far more mundane existence, looking after sheep. He wanders beyond the wilderness, though, and comes perhaps unwittingly to the mountain of God. There he sees the most peculiar thing: a bush that is burning, but nevertheless remains intact. Flames are surrounding it, but not one twig disappears. Nor does it seem to be spreading to other plants and wildlife, with the typically destructive force of fire. It is blazing, but not consumed or consuming. Notice what Moses does--he turns aside to get a closer look. You might be thinking, “well YEAH. If I saw a bush that was burning without being burned up, I’d stop to look at it too!” But DO we? My hunch is that we are surrounded by burning bushes if we have eyes to see them. All of creation is alive with the glory of God, but often we are too busy, too distracted, and maybe too cynical to see the flames licking the edges of our everyday experiences. But the text says, “When God saw that Moses had turned aside, God called to him, ‘Moses! Moses!’” What might Moses have lost had he hurried past that bush? Slow down and pay attention to the moments, the events, and the people in your life who seem to shimmer with a strange light. Turn aside and listen for what they have to tell you. Nothing less than freedom from slavery and suffering is at stake!
So God speaks to Moses and says, “I have seen the pain of my people, I have heard their cry, I know their suffering.” This is the language of intimacy. The Hebrew word for knowing, yada, is the same word used in Hebrew for lovemaking. This is not academic knowing, this is soul knowing. God is intimately connected with God’s people and longs to lead them out of suffering into a place of abundance and peace, a land of milk and honey. The strange part in all of this, shocking really, is that God needs Moses to accomplish this. Sure, with 3,000 years of retrospect, Moses looks like a great guy and I don’t think any of us would argue that God made a bad choice. But at the moment of the Burning Bush, there wasn’t a whole lot of evidence in his favor. I mean this is the guy that blew a virtually un-blowable insider position in the Egyptian political system because he got hot-headed and killed somebody. Then he runs to save his own skin and now he’s puttering around the desert working for his father-in-law. Let’s just say that his resume isn’t looking so hot at this particular moment in the story. And, to be fair, no-one is more aware of this than Moses, whose first response to this exciting job offer hand-delivered by the creator of the Universe is, Who me? Who am I to go to Pharoah and bring the people out of Israel? In fact this seems to be the standard response in all the prophetic call stories and I think it is one with which we can resonate. Today we might actually respond to such a call by saying, Who am I? I’m no Moses. But ironically enough that’s exactly what Moses thought. I am reminded of Teresa of Avila’s claim that God has no hands but ours. And that includes you, whoever you are, no matter how insignificant or incapable you might feel.
God speaks compassionately to Moses’ fear promising, I will be with you. That leads Moses to the next logical question, and who, precisely, are you? He’s smart enough to put this question in the mouths of the people he is going to rescue. Not that I have any concerns, here, but uh…what if they want to know your name? Moses turns out to be gutsier than he looks, asking God for some credentials, a character reference in the form of a name. God’s response, in Hebrew, is EHYEH ASHER EHYEH. Often translated, I am who I am it is probably more like I will be who I will be. This is the Divine Name revealed for the first time, and it does, in fact, tell us about the character of this Deity who promises to be with us. If you listen to it in Hebrew it sounds like wind, like spirit? Or maybe like breathing. God self-identifies with being, with what is at the deepest level of reality—beyond our illusions and our fears and our projections, God is the being that simply is, the Truth of reality with a capital T. It is always unfolding, always becoming and always being at the one and the same time.
None of us will ever grasp this AM-ness, this what is-ness completely. We’re not meant to, in that we are finite human beings. What we can do—no, what we are called to do, is to manifest it in our very partial, very incomplete human lives. When we do not manifest the unique expression of the Divine that wants to be revealed through us, we live in slavery. When we deny or prevent that manifestation of Divinity in others, we act as Pharoah. Each of us participates both in being slaves and in the enslavement of others. And all the while, God is calling for the liberation of God’s people. That’s us and it’s those we oppress, both by the evil that we do and the evil that is done our behalf. Who are we? We are the Israelites when we suffer the denial, the dismissal and the rejection of our unique expression in the world. We are Pharoah when we participate in and support systems that exploit and oppress other persons or groups as they seek to express their own full humanity. And we are Moses, in that God comes to each and every one of us, asking us to live into the fullness of God’s image imprinted uniquely onto our very souls, and beyond that to speak the Truth to power, standing up for the fullness of that image as it finds expression in our brothers and sisters.
At the heart of the story of the Burning Bush is nothing less than a revelation of the nature of God. But even more spectacular perhaps, is its revelation of the intimate connection between God and us piddly—or not so piddly—humans. This story points us toward a startling truth that each of us, together with all of creation, is called to manifest a particular aspect of God’s being-ness. It invites us to imagine a co-creative relationship with God that would turn us into something very much like the Burning Bush. We would blaze with the very fire of God, while still maintaining our identity in all of its wholeness and respecting the identities of others. Blazing, but not consumed and not consuming. If stepping into such a vision of your life feels impossible, don’t worry. You’re not alone…God will be with you.
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