My plan for Election Day

My plan for Election Day (by Pastor Kara)

1- I will Vote.

2- I will see and value my fellow citizens, and especially our poll workers. 
I'll do little things to remember and practice our belonging to each other, like making eye contact, expressing gratitude, (and even, perhaps, banter??).

3- I will decide how much of my attention I will give to the breathless, insistent coverage. 
I’m asking: What would support my soul, and help me keep a God-is-God perspective?
Can I stay grounded and steady no matter what? Or might watching coverage all night put me in in an internal state of chaotic adrenaline and dopamine waves of anger, hope, longing, frustration, anticipation, irritability (without any real results or conclusions anyway until tomorrow or later?) 

I am remembering: I have choices.
Like turning off my phone, computer and TV, (or putting on ‘focus settings’ to limit social media and news), or setting or two 5-minute check-in times, or wait for the morning paper. 
I could be intentionally being outdoors, in silence, or with loved ones. I could eat something delicious and nourishing, greet my neighbors, call a friend about something unrelated to politics, 
so many choices! 

4- I will Pray. 
I will carry my finger rosary in my pocket to help me pray. Maybe I'll use a simple, all-day breath prayer, like, “Hi God. Help us today,” or try to look at each person I see with the internal comment, “Look! Another child of God, in this together!” 

For me, reading this prayer has an immediate, physical impact: I can feel my heart rate slow down and my mind and spirit open up. It helps me feel held in the wider, deeper, realer truth that I want to trust and embody, whatever day it is.

God is good, all the time. All the time, God is Good.

A Prayer for Election Day

A PRAYER FOR ELECTION DAY

We belong

first and foremost

to you, Lord.

God of heaven and earth,

eternity and the moment,

ever and always.

Then we belong to the whole of creation;

the living, the dead,

the yet to become, and the reborn,

the ongoing cycle of earth and life

with its glorious array of ever-expanding participants:

mountains and trees and oceans and valleys,

gazelles and robins and rivers and earthworms,

all.

Next we belong to the human family,

all humanity in every corner of the vast globe,

all languages, creeds, cultures, skin tones, religions, beliefs, experiences, 

hopes, celebrations, losses, goals, 

vocations, technologies and connections,

in grief and wonder and anger and happiness and confusion and sadness and joy.

Whatever happens, and no matter what,

we belong to them all, all, all.

And they all

belong to us.

After this we are grouped - 

some arbitrarily and some by choice - 

into land masses and geographic regions.

We develop identifying accents, clothing preferences and regional tastebuds

which is to say,

we gather our experiences into ourselves

alongside others

who are gathering into themselves experiences

alongside us.

We call our places of belonging towns, counties, villages and cities,

tribes, nations, countries, continents and coalitions;

these countless designations simply mean that

we live nearby

and agree to certain codes of living with one another

that, in one way or another, uphold our greater belonging - 

to the whole human family,

the living and the dead of all creation,

and the Lord of all.

Next we have the smaller groups in which we learn

and the people there who teach us,

the neighbors, musicians, coaches and collaborators,

the members of our faith, our teams, our clans.

We have hobbies we cultivate with people who practice them alongside us,

passions we pursue and those whom they impact,

jobs we end up in and those who end up there too,

whose lives intertwine with our own.

And then there are those specific people from whom we come,

the ones whose being and belonging

shape our own being and belonging most directly,

I mean, of course,

our ancestors and grandparents,

aunts and uncles, cousins and kin,

parents and siblings.

We may have the partner with whom we share our life,

and the children whom we shape and watch become,

and the pets we assemble into our homes,

and the gardens we tend,

and the friendships we cultivate,

and the places we grow our roots,

deep, strong and sure,

with and for those to whom we give our hearts,

who will one day be buried in the ground alongside everyone and everything else,

to which we already and always belong.

So on this day when our Democracy is Verbed,

and we exercise our right and responsibility to participate together

in shaping the future of our shared home,

we give thanks for all the belongings that hold us,

both created and innate.

We give thanks for the communities into which we pour our lives,

and for all those in our communities that pour their lives into us.

We give thanks for the earth that nurtures all life,

and all those who nurture the earth.

On this day that shapes our nation,

in our collective belonging called The United States of America

we give thanks for all that is good and wise and kind,

all that upholds our humanity,

both individual and shared.

Thank you, God.

And in our collective belonging called The United States of America

we confess all that is evil, foolish and divisive,

all that damages our soul,

both individual and shared.

Forgive us, Lord.

And when this day of national weighing in

has come to an end

and whatever comes next 

begins,

it remains

that beyond country, beyond kin,

beyond borders and beliefs,

beyond any and all boundaries,

whether natural or unnatural,

is the Great Belonging,

that is,

to one another, all,

and to you, Lord of all.

For this, today,

we give thanks.

Amen.

- Kara Root, from Receiving This Life

What Jesus does with my malice

Matthew 22:15-22

There are certain public figures who, from time to time, I give a lot of my attention to. Their actions stir my rage. They have caused so much suffering and death it knocks the wind out of me to consider it. So, I consider it a lot. I indulge my rage. I’m grateful for the Psalmist with whom I can pray, God, I hate them with a perfect hatred (Psalm 139:22). And sometimes I will leave it there (and not go with the Psalmist to "Search me O God, and know my heart, see if there is any wickedness in me"), because I am not ready to move on with the Psalmist from the hating. When I feed that hate, when I pamper my anger, something starts to happen to me. Despair rises up and washes over me, bitterness takes hold. I begin to lose perspective. These individuals become more than human; they become an idol, an object to fear and despise, which is its own form of worship. Then meanness can set in, and I find it feels good to laugh at their misfortune and root for their demise, and it is these moments that I reach for social media, because there I can gorge myself on a feast of spite, offered up across the board, by people with whom I agree or disagree, it doesn’t matter, as long as we are hating or mocking the same thing. 

Our scripture today, begins with two groups who barely tolerate each other, but who share a platform of mutual hate: the Pharisees, and Herodians. The Pharisees are religious scholars concerned about Israel living faithfully as the people of God, and the Herodians have cozied up to Rome to build wealth and maintain stability. Together they agree on little, but they are allied in their mutual alarm over Jesus. His words and actions jeopardize both their worlds equally. He is clearly a threat to be dealt with.

According to Matthew, this encounter with Jesus happens just a day or two after Jesus’s big Palm Sunday entrance into Jerusalem, where people hailed him as a king. Then he stormed through the temple turning over tables brazenly claiming that “his father’s house” was being desecrated, turned into a marketplace of predatory corruption forcing people to buy access to God. He takes a break to sleep and curse a fig tree, then he returns today to the temple for round two. 

In the morning, he’s confronted by the chief priests, who demand to know his authority to say and do the things he’s saying and doing, and he asks them a question they can’t answer. They withdraw, humiliated, long enough for Jesus to drop several intense parables, one of which the leaders suspect is about them but are too afraid to ask, and ending on the winner we read last week about the wedding feast with the murdering and gnashing of teeth. That one felt especially dangerous, even if people couldn’t immediately figure out quite what it meant or who exactly it was threatening. Which brings us to this moment. 

The Pharisees and Herodians are pros; they get how politics and power and influence work. Riled up and ready, they’ve conspired together to come up with the perfect catch-22 question to trap Jesus, a real lose-lose that cannot be answered without getting into trouble. Instead of his veiled criticism, calm confidence, and weird stories, Jesus will be forced into the fray. Once he picks a side, his credibility will be destroyed, his mystique undermined, and order will be restored back to how things are supposed to be around here.

The game is set. He’s in the crosshairs. So, they begin. First, they pour on the compliments – Jesus, you are so sincere, and so truthful, and you treat everyone the same, so how would you advise us in this terribly difficult question? Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor or not?  

 
But Jesus, seeing their malice… refuses to play along.  
Give back to the empire the things that are the empire's – give back to God the things that are God's. 

I want to pause here. It doesn’t say Jesus sees the high level gameplay, though surely, he does, or that Jesus sees their trap and gets ready to expertly sidestep it. It doesn’t say he sees the way to beat them and win. It says he sees their malice. He recognizes in them the burning desire to hurt someone, to tear someone down, to cause pain, injury or distress to another person. Jesus sees this, in their hearts, in their faces. Jesus sees right through them.

Malice is corrosive. Malice means I can make enemies out of people, turn them into objects of my scorn. I can overlook our shared humanity, cease to wonder what pain they bear, what fears they fight off, what in them is open or closed to love, cease to want the best for them and want only the worst.  When fear curdles into hate, it becomes malice. When despair rots into disgust, and self-protection layers over vulnerability a callousness so thick that it blocks our humanity from others, and makes us not only uncaring, but cruel, that’s malice. 

So, then, aware of their malice, Jesus calls them out and exposes the game.  Why are you testing me, you hypocrites? Show me the coin you use to pay taxes.  And then, right there in the temple, where they are not supposed to even have empire money but only temple coins, they hand to Jesus a coin stamped with the image of the emperor and words, son of a god. (specifically, "Tiberius, son of the divine Agustus"). 

Whose image is shown there?  he asks them.  That’s who this belongs to.  

The image of the empire is stamped on nearly everything we touch.  Indeed, there is no way to escape it – we are empire people, born into empire, and shaped by empire, our imaginations formed for empire pursuits and empire values, we’re fluent in empire language, and quite comfortable using the currency of the empire. 

Empire is money, and economic systems of inequality that create obscene wealth and widespread poverty. But empire is also all the other more subtle ways we acquire, bestow, or take away people’s worth, relevance, or meaning. It is the cultural currency that compares and ranks us. Empire centers power instead of shared vulnerability. It prizes conquering instead of coming alongside. Empire determines how we live in time, hurried and anxious, and directs our attention and focus on consuming instead of sharing, it distracts us away from our neighbor and points us toward our own selves. It severs our ties to the earth and disregards our responsibility to the whole human community. 

We even bring the empire, here, into the temple, which is to say, into the sacred space where God meets human beings as we are with and for each other in God’s presence. We let these moments of encounter be invaded by the empire whenever the empire mindset and methods creep in - comparing and condemning, deciding who is more less deserving of love or forgiveness, more or less worthy of God’s grace. When we paint people in power serving only themselves as irredeemable, or slander other Christians for their harmful words and actions, when we sit here thinking we are the exception to the belonging of God, If people really knew me, they would not love me. God is disappointed in me, we’ve let the empire into the temple. And when we let our deep longing for goodness, our God-shared sorrow about the evil and brokenness in the world fester, our heartbreak, anger and blame builds into malice, and we can stand in the presence of God incarnate and try to pull him into our game with a token of the empire in our outstretched hand.

Malice is a terrible thing. It corrodes our souls and societies.

What Jesus’s questioners do not understand when they try to trap Jesus is that Jesus was never playing their game. He was always exposing it. The loving, Almighty, I-am-with-you God came into death’s destructive game to break it open and free us for deeper, truer life with and for each other, claimed for life in God.  Jesus is always peeling off the false to reveal the real. 

Empires fall. Their monuments crumble and their coins become relics in the dust, excavated and displayed in museums for those who have the time and interest to look for a few moments before moving on with their lives. Houses built on sand wash away, the grass withers and the flower fades, the lies are lies, secrets and greed and fear-mongering and smokescreens cannot hold, all that is in the darkness will be exposed by the light, and nothing that seems strong and sure will survive. Give back to the empire what is the empire’s. 

But we can’t get ourselves there. It’s hard to let it go. We’re too fluent in empire gameplay, too immersed to pull ourselves out. The Herodians cared about stability and order, maintaining a good society. The Pharisees cared about obedience to God, upholding the faith, maintaining a good soul. Yet, wanting a good society or a good soul apparently can’t save us from malice. When our projects or people feel threatened, even our highest longing for goodness can turn evil and we can wish harm on others and takes pleasure in their demise. 

When I get caught in malice, what really happens to me is that I forget ‘the livingness of God.’  Without meaning to, I make God a background painting on the wall of the world’s drama, Inert, powerless, flat, like an etching stamped with a title that I can pull out and use when it suits me, or drop in my pocket and forget about. And I become trapped in something ugly and false, unable to see beauty, inaccessible to goodness, out of touch with truth. 

I need saving. I need my wayward heart exposed by the light of the world; I need to be brought back from death into God’s love.

Jesus is aware of this. He sees our hearts. So, he teaches us to pray, as we do every week, Lead us not into temptation, butdeliver us from malice. This is the same word, ‘evil’, and ‘malice’.  And if we’re going to get into it, the word deliver, means something like, free us for yourself, rescue us to and for you, God, out of evil, away from the temptation to wish harm upon one another, back to and for You. Pull us out of malice and claim us for yourself. Deliver us God and bring us into you.

Jesus is the light of the world – his very presence exposes love and illumines malice and burns away evil to fill us with love.  The Eastern church teaches that heaven and hell are the same thing:  God’s direct presence encountering us, as if bright, unwavering, all-exposing light. We may experience this as either all-encompassing love, infinite joy and permanent peace, or our hardened, protective hearts may thrash and wither in the intensity and brightness of God’s full presence, like a terrifying, tormenting fire. 

Give back to God what is already God’s, Jesus says, standing before his questioners, shining his light into their darkness, seeing their hearts, and inviting them out of death’s game into freedom and life. 

God is God, there is no one and nothing in all existence that is not subject to this God, that does not belong already to God. In Jesus Christ God inhabits the fullness of our humanity and brings us into the fullness of belonging to God and all others. The divine presence is here, in love, claiming all. 

And when we gather together in worship, by God’s grace, we give back to God what is God’s. We confess we’ve brought the empire into the temple when we put away our cell phones; turning them off is temporarily giving back empire things to the empire. Then, turning our battered hearts toward our source, in vulnerability and honesty, we let the light of Christ illumine us. We sing praises to God who is God, we pray for this beloved world, asking for hope, and seeking healing, and expecting redemption, we bear each other’s burdens and share each other’s joy and as we worship alongside our siblings, by the power of the Holy Spirit, we give to God what is God’s.  

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness can never extinguish it. Jesus sees into our hearts and calls us out, thanks be to God, and God doesn't leave us stranded there. The Spirit prays with and for us, so we can simply say, Lord, have mercy on us, have mercy on this world.  And so with confidence and trust, we will pray again, Heavenly parent and creator of all, deliver us out of malice back to yourself. Amen.

 

Participating in the Party

 

Matthew 22:1-14 (Read the text first. No, really, do it. When it was read in church today, faces all over the sanctuary were scrunched up in disgust, heads shaking. When I got to the pulpit, someone called out, "Good luck, Kara!") There is a gentle, G-rated version of this parable in Luke. I kind of wish we’d gotten that one today. It skips the rampant murdering and the gnashing of teeth. Years ago, Pastor Lisa called Matthew’s the ‘Quinten Tarrantino version.” Matthew goes for the garish violence, the action movie effects. You can almost hear the dissonant soundtrack. I’m more in a Norwegian Christmas movie mood. My week began with friends gathered in the presence of the living God with trust and gratitude, and devolved into freebasing alarming news about our world and country and worrying about my kids on their college campuses.   But then, Matthew was written not long after Jerusalem was burned to the ground and the temple was destroyed, amidst deep class divides, heavy taxation, stark inequality, and great tension between religious groups. The people would have listened to this story. Like a mom breaking through to a kid in mid-tantrum, maybe the tone matched the moment.    So maybe, sitting here today, with whatever are our own “mountains crumbing into the heart of the sea, earth-shaking, waters roaring” circumstances, as the psalmist so aptly describes, maybe what we need is not a soothing lefse-laden distraction, but a spicy shot of hyperbole. In any case, that’s what we’re getting.   So, first, let’s clear up, what even is a parable?  It is not a fable – a simple little tale with a direct moral lesson like The Tortoise and the Hare or The Boy who Cried Wolf. And it’s not an allegory with a singular aim like Animal Farm or Pilgrim’s Progress where the pilgrim named “Christian” gets insight on his journey from someone named “Interpreter” and help from, you guessed it, “Help.”    Parables are exaggerated stories meant to provoke and evoke. Jesus spoke in parables a lot. One thing I love about the TV series The Chosen is how confused and sometimes annoyed the disciples are by Jesus’ cryptic parables. He rarely explains what they mean. He just drops these perplexing, unsettling stories that shake up the soul, and then goes quiet and leaves it there.   One more word of prep. Remember, to every scripture we read we bring two things: we bring our question, Who is this God and what is God up to? But we also bring ourselves and our world, and whatever is happening here and now, (sometimes we articulate that as the always-lived question, What is a good life and how do we live it?) Then we trust that showing up together, with our hearts open in the presence of the living Christ, the Holy Spirit will move through it all and somehow we’ll leave here with a word from God.   So let’s get to it, and listen again to this intense parable for the word of the I am-with-you-God to us today.   The king of a land is throwing a party. And it’s personal. He’s overjoyed. His son is getting married. This party is more food than you’ve ever seen at one time, the best meal you’ve ever eaten, dancing and music and conversation and merriment, inside the home of the king. As might be expected, those with status, power, and money are invited to attend. The world as it is.   But something inconceivable happens – the lords and ladies of the land turn down the invitation. Every single one. I have too much to do, they say, to a person. I’m too busy. I couldn’t possibly stop. My work needs me. I’m important, essential. I am making things, growing things, building things. Don’t interrupt me.  Perhaps some have even quite forgotten about the king, except as an idea, a concept out there. Their world has constricted to their own domain; they’ve lost all connection to everything and everyone beyond. An invitation to party with the king is an irrelevant fantasy, a junk-mail child’s tale, a silly side story that doesn’t matter in real life. Their life. Life with them at the center.   But the king persists.  He sends new messengers. Please come celebrate with me. Look, the table is set, the feast is prepared, it’s lavish and wonderful and ready for you. All you have to do is show up.   Then some become enraged. As though we could just drop everything and come to a party?  How dare you insinuate our work is so worthless? How dare you interrupt us again? Then, as the idiom suggests might happen, they torture and kill the messengers.   Now the king is angry, and his power and reach is greater than theirs, so he sends his army and wipes out all the murderers and burns down their city. Now all they had going is gone in an instant -  as though swept away by a hurricane or wildfire, wiped out by a stock market collapse or decimated by stage 4 cancer. Because nothing lasts anyway, and our self-made, insulated realms of safety and control are fleeting illusion.    Now with labels, power, and ranking torn down, the rat race wrecked, and no work left to do, with the wealthy unworthy, and everything exposed as fleeting and false – the king doesn’t cancel the wedding to rebuild the city, doesn’t redirect reception funds to reestablish the destroyed economy and elevate a new elite.  He goes ahead with the party. The invitation goes out a third time. This time, the king invites everyone –far and wide. This feast is for all.  And there is no more way to earn your way in. The city is in ashes, so everyone, everywhere, come to the party and find abundant food, and satisfying company. Come linger in the presence and joy of the king and one another.   And there is nowhere left to aspire to than that – but there never has been, really.  Some of these guests never thought they’d set foot on the royal grounds, let alone inside the banquet hall. Others may have been striving and straining to one day be worthy of such an invitation, but today all that is over. They are all already invited.   So, the people come from far and wide. The good and the bad, Jesus says. The truly deserving and the completely undeserving. They set down their labor and labels, and they show up.     And when one arrives at the wedding of a gracious host, you are provided with a robe fit for the occasion and fit to you, clean and scented, ornately decorated and comfortable. The robe is draped over you as you enter the door. Dusty from the road, worn out from the journey, having lost it all, or stumbling in unawares, just as you are, however you are, whoever you are, however you came you’ve now become an honored guest of the king. Each and all, without distinction or merit, equally claimed, equally esteemed, equally welcomed.   This is where Luke – which already excluded any murdering or other unpleasantness in his telling – ends the story. But Matthew continues.    Among the guests is one not dressed for the occasion. Imagine he came in his scrubs, or a three-piece suit, his marathon number, or mottoed t-shirt, sloganned cap, or unique, one-of-a-kind artsy jacket. Waving off the robe held out to him, with his arm outstretched and phone recording, he captures his own arrival live for his 400K followers. Or maybe he slinks in like he’s crashing the joint, bypassing the front door to creep through the garden hedge.   The King spots the man, Friend! The king calls him, How did you get in here without a wedding robe? And the man is speechless. He has no answer. He came in the identity he cultivated; he came in the self he’d been constructing. He came ready to compete and compare, to impress and inspire. He didn’t need a robe like everyone else; he had his own garb.  How are you here, the king asks, if you refuse to receive and participate?   So the guest is dismissed, or rather, he’s forcibly removed, with all the drama and cartoonish gore of the rest of the tale.  Cell phone smashed, he is bound hand and foot tossed into ‘outer darkness.’ Which is to say, perhaps, that the lurking void of terrifying nothingness he’d spent his life fleeing and guarding against now swallows him whole.   Jesus concludes the parable with, “For many are called, but few are chosen.”  Everyone is invited, all are called. And if you wandered around the party asking people how they ended up there, every one would answer with joy some version of, “I didn’t do a thing! I was chosen!”   The kingdom of heaven is like a king who throws a party.    The king is extravagant but not indulgent, generous but not indifferent. This matters. It’s not a side thing; it’s everything. The party will cost you nothing and nothing less than everything. You’re invited but this is not your party. You don’t set the terms. It’s the King’s party and everyone is invited.   There’s a new reality coming and you can be part of it. Come, God invites. Just show up, and if you do, I will give you everything you need. You will lack nothing. This is grace. But there is an expectation. That you leave behind everything - the work, and the ranking and labels. The fears that grab you, and the defenses you build. The stories you weave and the self you construct to beat back the terrifying void—you can’t bring those in. Come vulnerable and receive. Participate in the party. You must allow yourself to be claimed and provided for, honored, welcomed, and chosen.   Sometimes the gentleness and beauty of the Luke-style invitation will do it, and I am there. This is the reality I want to live in.     But sometimes I am so entrenched in fear and illusion that I need my ego project murdered and city burned down Tarrantino-style, because I will hear the invitation and refuse. That was me this week. I’ll stay in the world, in my work, I will center myself and my fears, I will let the noise and clamor of the crumbling empire fill my ears and ignore the invitation. Sometimes the invitation feels way too invasive or risky, it pokes right at my personal projects, and I lash out, defensive, self-protective. I kill the messenger or refuse the robe. And that’s an option. We can consign ourselves to the world that is ending, the story line that reaches its conclusion in the nothingness and darkness we’re running from but won’t admit it. God does not force us to join in the freedom being extended to us.   But hear this: God is remaking the world.  God is tearing down what’s broken and bringing the new. The life of reconciliation to God and all others is ours in Jesus Christ.  The new creation in complete belonging to God and all others is being extended to us, even right now, today, during, and in the middle of, everything else we see and hear and feel and are convinced must be most real and most powerful. Within this breaking down world, unbreakable life is already underway. The Spirit of Christ is here, healing, renewing, connecting. This cannot be stopped. In the suffering we find joy. In the dying we’re given life. Beauty and hope break into the ugliness and despair. God has come, God is with us, God’s love will be all in all for all.  Holy One, help us surrender all and accept your invitation, receive your grace that gives us what we need, and participate in the party. Amen.

Fed and Formed

 

Exodus 16:1-15 (16-36)

This week I spent three days with a very small group of Christians from around their state. This group is just forming, longing together for a deeper focus on God and prayer in their congregations and Church. They know each other but barely, mostly sharing an openness and willingness for whatever God may have for them. 

Before I arrived, the initial 12 people became 8. Then, 8 became 5. One could be with us only in the evenings. Another was bearing the grief of two dear ones currently dying. But they all wanted to be as present as they were able. I had planned what I would do, but when I got there, the situation called for something different.  In coming to talk to people about trusting God and responding to God’s leading, I was having to scrap my plans and pay attention in the moment to what God was doing and respond. 

Could it be any other way?

Mostly, we prayed. We talked about praying, shared stories about prayer, read scripture about prayer, rested, played and prayed. Morning, midday, evening prayer and compline, prayer stations, and all the ways of prayer we practice on Saturdays I shared with them in our contemplative prayer guide. And for three days, that’s what we did. 

I started the retreat saying we were going to pretend God is real and see what happens. And God kept meeting us. This is not an idea, it’s an experience. It can feel like a pressure in the chest, a ‘kathunk’ in the gut, tears, warmth, aha!, being drawn beyond yourself into something bigger, both deeply vulnerable and held safe.  God met us in art and nature, in sharing and listening, and especially in two ways: the songs I brought from our congregation – every single one was new to them and they fell right into them and gratefully sang, even though we were just a handful of people. And then, especially, and completely unexpectedly, in these strange, unplanned pockets of sudden silence.

Every time something ended – a meal, a conversation, a liturgy—a heavy, holy silence seemed to descend, and we sat there. Silent. And weirdly, it was not forced or awkward. Nobody felt compelled to speak or hurry away. When I did say something that broke the silence, it would just resume afterwards as though my comment was fine, but an unnecessary interruption of what was really meant to be happening.

When I realized that something was happening around silence, instead of the hour-long midafternoon silence on the schedule, like we usually have on our own sabbath retreats, I asked if they would like to try a Benedictine ‘Great Silence’ that extends from the end of Compline until lunch the following day. Without hesitating, they said yes. 

That night, they wanted to start compline early, so we prayed, and then departed the campfire at 7:45 pm into a silence that extended for the next 16 hours.

Who is this God? And what is God up to?

The scripture before us today is the theological beginning of our faith story. The part of the story we consider the beginning is told from the perspective of the relationship God forms with the people here, in the Exodus. It is here, 3500 years ago, that this question, Who is this God and what is God up to? begins being voiced and answered in our faith ancestors. Everything before and after flows from right here. 

But in this moment, they don’t know what’s happening. They don’t really know who they are yet, and they’ve barely just met this God their people have been worshiping for some five hundred years. Belonging to God is an idea, not yet an experience. we are glimpsing in these verses the first moments of this relationship forming. It is here that this God they’ve only heard stories about begins engaging them directly. Here is where they begin being made into the people of this God.

The Hebrew people who find themselves starving together in the harsh wilderness are a smattering of twelve, small, loosely related but separate, nomadic, tribal clans with an oral history tradition, who have been enslaved by the Egyptians for centuries. When we meet them here, they don’t have the law, the Ten Commandments or the Torah. There is no Sabbath practice or temple worship, no formalized religion or scripture at all, not even a unified, written language.  Everything that comes before this moment in our bible—Father Abraham and Mother Sarah, Isaac who was promised, Jacob who wrestles-with-God, and Joseph who saved the Egyptian empire from famine— it is all passed down, generation to generation, family to family. Nothing is written down yet. “The God of our Ancestors” is worshiped by each family and clan praying to this God, and telling their children the stories of God’s faithfulness to their forebears, while they themselves are slaves to the Pharaoh of Egypt. 

Then one day, Moses, a nobody nomad, stuttering shepherd, is out in the wilderness with the sheep and sees a bush continuously on fire, and hears from it his own name being called. Take off your shoes. You are on holy ground. Moses, I AM this God of your ancestors, of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. My name is I AM, Yahweh. (God’s name is an always present, always past, always future, outside time and timeful, I am who I am, I am who I was, I will be who I am…)

Yahweh tells Moses, I have seen the people’s misery, heard their groans, and know their suffering. I am going to set them free and make their home in a land flowing with milk and honey. And you, Moses, are going to lead them out of Egypt.

Then God acts. When the Pharoah repeatedly refuses to listen, God visits plagues on the Egyptians. Through Moses God unites the people into one, and in early morning hours they flee.  They’re chased by the world’s most formidable army, and God delivers them by parting the sea to lead them through on dry land. And day after day, God guides them onward by a cloud in the day and pillar of fire at night.

Who is this God and what is God up to? 

So far, that is being answered this way: Yahweh listens to our cries. Yahweh is more powerful than the mighty Pharoah who does not listen and his booming empire built on the backs of the weak. Yahweh is greater than the greatest army that cannot stand against God’s power. Earth, water, wind and fire are at Yahweh’s beck and call. 

That’s all a good start. Only now, the people have been out there in the wilderness for several grueling weeks, and the food has run out. They’re hungry and miserable, trudging through heat and barrenness, with no end in sight.  Unsurprisingly, the complaining kicks up. “If only Yahweh had killed us back there when we were slaves, at least we had enough to eat!”  The people yell at Moses and Aaron, his brother and spokesperson, “You brought us out here to kill the whole lot of us by starving us in the wilderness!”

But before Moses can respond, or bring their complaints to God, God is already responding. God says, “I am going to provide enough food for the people for each day, and that is all they are to gather. I will test the people to see if they will obey.”

Think of this like a pre-test. Where are we at, people? Do you trust me? How much teaching will I have to do? Yahweh is out to form them into God’s people, to shape them into this personal, covenant relationship of belonging to God they’ve heard about from the stories of their ancestors, but do not yet know themselves. And this shaping is not first through instructions and words. God didn’t line them up before they left Egypt and give them the Ten Commandments like reading them the rules before they get on the field trip bus. 

Trust is felt. They need to know what it is to be taken care of by God in their bodies and spirits. They are not going to be told how God operates until after their hunger is fed, their needs are provided for, and the rhythm of obeying, trusting and resting begins to be lived out in their daily actions and their conscious surrender into this way of God. 

The people keep complaining to Moses and Aaron, but they keep pointing back to God – you think we’re leading you? God is leading. God is listening. God is providing. 

Who is this God? 

The answer now expands. Yahweh is the God who provides, who listens to our complaining and responds to our need. 

Our lectionary text stops the story with God providing: Quail and manna, all they need, for today and only today.  But if we were to read on, we would see that this lesson is reinforced miraculously and insistently with the manna itself. God tells them a per person amount they should collect. But some of them gather scads of it, and some just a little, only when they go to measure, it is all exactly the amount God commanded them to pick up, enough for each person in their tent to eat and be filled. But then, some don’t eat their whole portion, they stay a bit hungry to squirrel way part of it for the next day just in case. And when they do, it becomes wormy and rotten, and Moses gets angry with them.  “Morning by morning” the scripture says, “they gathered it, as much as each needed, but when the sun grew hot, it melted.” The provision of God can’t be saved up, and it also can’t be postponed.

What you need today. All you need today. Enough for all. No one with more. No one with less. No rationing and saving up for tomorrow. No delaying receiving the gift. Participating in this new way of being. Morning by morning, new mercies. God will take care of you. Now. And again tomorrow, now, I AM is your God. 

After five days of slowly learning, they’re told to gather twice as much on the sixth day, because God is going to give them this new thing: a holy day of rest. They will have enough food for the seventh day and will not need to gather. But when the seventh day comes, some of them try to collect again and find nothing there. And poor Moses and Aaron have to keep verbally reiterating these lessons Yahweh is teaching them. You can’t hack the system and save yourself. Trust. Obey. Receive. Rest. Live into these rhythms and rituals that hold you in this relationship with the God to whom you belong.

Who is this God and what is God up to? 

Now it’s deeper: Yahweh is trustworthy. This God knows and provides exactly what we need. Yahweh thwarts our attempts to live apart from God for ourselves. Yahweh expects us to participate in God’s way of life. God will continue to take care of us. Bit by bit, God is freeing them from slavery’s patterns and self-protections, freeing them for belonging to God and each other.

Teach us to pray, the disciples will ask Jesus, 1500 years later. And now the God who encountered the Israelites in the wilderness and taught them to trust through daily bread is standing right in front of them in the person of Jesus Christ, who says I AM the ‘the bread of life.’  A new kind of relationship is forming, and they don’t know what is happening yet, or how it all fits together, and they certainly don’t know what is to come. They only know that they want to learn something Jesus seems to know. So they do like we all do and ask a “How?” question, and like their ancestors, they get a “Who?” answer. How do we live? How do we help? How do we know what to do? How do we pray? 

 Jesus answers them, and we have named his answer a “How” answer by calling it ‘The Lord’s prayer,’ but it is really a Who, answer, drawing them toward I AM. 

Loving parent, not bound by time and space, 

draw us into your life, your way of seeing and being in this world. 

Feed us today what we need for today. Teach us to trust. 

Form us into people turned toward you, ready to receive. 

Release us from what separates us from you, and help us release others from what divides us from them.  Don’t test us to see where we stand; instead deliver us from evil (and this word deliver means literally, save us to and for yourself). 

“Jesus, teach us to pray.” is what this group I was with said this week, 2000 years after the first disciples. And we kept being fed with silence. Over and over.  Delicious, rich, strangely satisfying silence that we had clearly been starving for. The I AM, just hanging out with us right there.  I don’t yet know what God was doing in that, or will do their congregations, or their diocese, or what is to come for them.  But whatever it will be, something was beginning. 

God is always forming us into a people to and for Godself. Whatever we think we are asking for, what we receive is God, I AM, who pulls us into Christ’s life and through his death to the vulnerable and safe space on the other side, where we embody for the world the shared human reality of our belonging to God and all others.  We are learning to obey, trust, receive and rest. We begin by being as present as we are able. Then we watch for what God is doing and respond. 

Amen.