Pastoral Prayer
Prayers: Jannie Brown’s brother, Dannie Davis’ family member Chris Car-neal,
The Lord be with you, and with your spirit, Let us pray.
Lord, we are such frail beings, living on a fragile planet. Our survival, individually and globally, is dependent on a multitude of factors, sunshine, rain, rich soil, fresh air to provide the core ingredients of life, to nurture us to health. We see the devastating effects of natural disasters all around us and know such tremendous loss of life and peril to those who survive and we say, “In your mercy, … hear our prayers.” Almost as if you will miraculously end the pandemic, quiet the storm, and quench the fires.
In reality, we know you work in different ways. You quiet the storms in our souls. You quench the fires of our minds. With each breath we find you calling us to stronger acts of compassion, to broader visions of justice, to higher goals for peace, in our community, and in every village on the planet.
Our nation mourns a pioneer for equal rights. Ruth Bader Ginsburg commanded respect from people all across the political spectrum. As we move into an election cycle let us demand the best from those who seek to serve us.
Like manna in the wilderness, remind us you have given us what we need to survive. Help us distribute resources equitably. Help us feed our sisters and brothers, and work toward the day when everyone is fed. Help us care for our neighbors, and work toward the day when everyone finds health and wholeness and a seat at the table of grace. Convince us, for not only are we frail, and fragile, but at times we are fickle, our attention, … fleeting. Call us back to accountability. Challenge us to share the blessings freely which you have freely shared with us.
We continue our prayer as Jesus taught his disciples: Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be your name. your will be done, your kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil for thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen.
Scripture and Sermon
Exodus 16:2-15
2 The whole congregation of the Israelites complained against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness. 3 The Israelites said to them, “If only we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.”
4 Then the Lord said to Moses, “I am going to rain bread from heaven for you, and each day the people shall go out and gather enough for that day. In that way I will test them, whether they will follow my instruction or not. 5 On the sixth day, when they prepare what they bring in, it will be twice as much as they gather on other days.” 6 So Moses and Aaron said to all the Israelites, “In the evening you shall know that it was the Lord who brought you out of the land of Egypt, 7 and in the morning you shall see the glory of the Lord, because God has heard your complaining against the Lord. For what are we, that you complain against us?”
8 And Moses said, “When the Lord gives you meat to eat in the evening and your fill of bread in the morning, because the Lord has heard the complaining that you utter—what are we? Your complaining is not against us but against the Lord.”
9 Then Moses said to Aaron, “Say to the whole congregation of the Israelites, ‘Draw near to the Lord, for God has heard your complaining.’” 10 And as Aaron spoke to the whole congregation of the Israelites, they looked toward the wilderness, and the glory of the Lord appeared in the cloud. 11 The Lord spoke to Moses and said, 12 “I have heard the complaining of the Israelites; say to them, ‘At twilight you shall eat meat, and in the morning you shall have your fill of bread; then you shall know that I am the Lord your God.’”
13 In the evening quails came up and covered the camp; and in the morning there was a layer of dew around the camp. 14 When the layer of dew lifted, there on the surface of the wilderness was a fine flaky substance, as fine as frost on the ground. 15 When the Israelites saw it, they said to one another, “What is it?”[a] For they did not know what it was. Moses said to them, “It is the bread that the Lord has given you to eat.
This is the word of God, for the people of God. Thanks be to God.
In today’s text, the Israelites have finally caught their breath from their escape from Egypt, and they are getting hungry. They move on from the oasis of Elim, and scan the horizons, and see, for all intents and purposes, a single tumbleweed roll across. Their stomachs roll with hunger, and the rumble of their bellies turn into a grumble on their tongue. They recall the meat and the bread of Egypt, how though their bones ached and their world was small, their bellies were full. At least fuller than they are now in this God-forsaken wilderness.
They sing a familiar song, “If only, if only,” and just as God heard their collective cry rise up out of Egypt, God hears their cry now.
God speaks through Moses and Aaron, telling the Israelites that there will be meat and bread again for them, but this time it’s a little different. There are a few instructions: only gather the quail in the evening and this thing you’ll call “What is it?” AKA manna, in the morning that you need for the day. No hoarding—there will be enough, just trust me. On the sixth day, gather enough for two days because on the seventh day, we rest. That’s the way things are done around here.
And besides, you need to rest those weary bones. You’ve been working all your life, your full-ish bellies at the expense of your children, your freedom, your bodies, your very lives.
I want you to know, God says, that I have heard you, and you will see my glory.
I have heard you, and you will see me.
Let me say it again, for those in the back, for the hard of hearing, God said (I’m paraphrasing here) I have heard you, and you will see me.
Well, you know how the story goes. There is a mixture of awe and rule-breaking—Moses lets out a sigh of frustration at their inability to follow what seems to be simple instructions. Why can’t this previously oppressed and dominated people follow two simple rules from God out here in desert freedom, this former palace boy huffs. Just open your eyes! Believe what you’re seeing! He cries, forgetting his own initial disbelief at a burning bush.
Finally, the Israelites get the hang of things, at least for now. And God suggests that they keep an omer of manna, a jar of this sweet, flaky substance, as a testimony to the future generations of what God has done for them. How God heard their cry again and again, how God provided for them. No longer will the idealized and unwarranted memories of meat and the bread of Egypt be before them, but rather the genuine memories of the meat and the bread of God, rather the recollections of God’s generosity and generativity.
It’s a nice story, right? The Israelites are hungry, God feeds them and gives them rest, God is patient with them even if Moses is a little short-tempered. At the end they set aside evidence that God has been faithful to them so they can look back and say, “Ah yes, remember what God has done for us.” God made a way out of Egypt, God made a way to survive in the wilderness. God made a way. See?
Most scholars agree that this story was written down long after it happened, long after Israel had reached the Promised Land and flourished, and after their fall into the hands of big, scary Babylon, being carried off into captivity, into exile. Once again, Israel found itself displaced, and they’re telling the story of their ancestors’ displacement to hold onto their identity. To remember who God is, who they are. They’re calling on the wisdom and the narrative of those before, and asking how will God make a way now? Will God provide again? This story seems important today, doesn’t it?
And maybe this story told over and over throughout the centuries is about God’s providence, not only of manna—literal food for the Israelites, but also the providence of rest. I mean, these people have literally been working themselves to death, and God sees that the wilderness is no picnic in the park either, so take a beat, God suggests. Gather just what you need because there will be more tomorrow, I promise, and rest often because I have heard your cry, and you will see me.
But you see, this is where I’m getting hung up. Because I like the story of God’s generosity as I’ve told it, God’s mothering of this disjointed people traumatized from being oppressed and on the run.
But then there’s this part about God repeating that through the manna, the Israelites will see the glory of the Lord, the CEB translation says, “you will see the Lord’s glorious presence.”
Not you will see the Promised Land I have for you. Not you will see the Egyptians’ fall from glory. Not you will see where all this quail and manna is coming from. No, you will see something inexplicable, something impossible, something almost unbelievable.
I mean, what are they seeing exactly? When they see “the Lord’s glorious presence,” when they see God, what is it they’re seeing? What is it? Oh, I see.
At the end of the story, the Israelites put an omer of manna aside, their gaze not anymore on the the bread and meat of Egypt, but rather on the bread and meat of God, of the wilderness, of a world that is the same as the one they were living in three months ago, but not really the same.
Because in the world from three months ago, in Egypt, bread was only given as a reward for labor, for toil and productivity, received only and always in fearful anxiety. But now, in this world in the wilderness, bread is a gift at the price of nothing. It allows them to rest, to live not in fear, but in trust, not in anxiety, but in faith. This new world of the Holy One might take some getting used to, might take some learning of a new language of consuming, a new logic of living, a new grammar of being.
Draw near, God says, and see what I am doing. What is it? They reply. Exactly! God says.
What if God is inviting the Israelites not to simply shift their gaze from Egypt to the Promised Land? What if God is calling the Israelites not to turn their head from one direction to another? What if instead, God is calling the Israelites to see the world in a completely different way?
What if God is essentially saying, “Close your eyes and now see what I am doing.”
Because when the Israelites hoard the manna, trying to save some for the next day, a habit they picked up from Egypt, God says, no, no, that’s not it. When the Israelites don’t prepare for the Sabbath of rest, God says, no, no, don’t you see?
God made a way, and now God is making a new way of living, of seeing. God is constructing a new way of relating to one another, of relating to God.
What if through the interaction with the manna and the quail, God is saying, “There is another way of seeing the world? There is another way that includes seeing me, the Holy One, be in the world with you, for you.”
And when the Israelites in exile are telling this story, they are reminding each other, “There is another way of seeing the world. The buildings have collapsed and we are not at home, but God is inviting us to see a new way. An old, ancient way, from long before the world was formed, but you see, God has a way of making something out of nothing. The world out of nothing, a people out of no people, bread out of the early morning, hope out of displacement.”
You see, perhaps, the manna is not really about the manna, at least not only about the manna. Maybe it’s about envisioning a different world, a world that God wants that doesn’t operate on the capitalistic rules of constant production and consumption, that enforces oppression, and perpetuates fear. Can you see it? Draw near, God says. I have heard you cry out, God says.
And what about you, Azle? What can you see? Because you see something, don’t you?
Something is happening here in a little church just off the highway, tucked behind El Paseo. Something that we might put in an omer as testimony to future generations, to ourselves, reminding what God has done and is doing. The people of God can be reminded just as in exile, “There is another way of seeing the world. The church is dying, and we are not living in our former glory, but God is inviting us to see a new way. An old, ancient way, from long before the world was formed, but you see, God has a way of making something out of nothing. The world out of nothing, a people out of no people, bread out of the early morning, hope out of displacement, a covenant community out of farmers and teachers and accountants and retirees and earnest children.”
In a few weeks, we are planning on having in-person worship. I hesitate to use a word like reopening because it feels like a misnomer. We will have people in this sanctuary other than the worship team for the first time since March, and there will be lots of ways that we seek to mitigate risk. You will receive instructions as the day approaches, so I won’t spend time on them here. But I mention mitigating risk because things will be different. There will be beloved parts of worship that will be missing. It will at times feel awkward and clunky and just plain weird. There will be an aching in our chest for times past.
On one hand, we’ll be back in this holy space, made holy by your presence meeting God’s presence. On the other hand, this will not be like what we’ve known for years. It will not feel like enough. It will feel like the whiff of an apple when all we really want to do is devour it, seeds and all. We’ll have to practice restraint and trust in the slow work of God, of science, of our promises to keep showing up in each other’s lives.
We made this shift 6 months ago when the world came to a halt and held its breath. Worship went from what we had always known to strictly online. We weren’t sure how to sing or where to point the camera. We fiddled around with technology to enhance the sound and we confined our worship activity to a little stretch of space on the chancel in hopes you might forget for a moment you were in your living room and instead here with us. We’ve done Sunday School and Bible studies and book studies on Zoom and Facebook Live. We shifted our meetings to the ethers of the internet. We sent cards and made phone calls and held each other in prayer.
If it has felt like loss, it’s because it was. We felt grief because we were grieving. We still are. We tried to replicate life together while apart only to realize that there is no such thing as one for one. That our task was not to simply translate church into a new medium, but rather we must reinvent church. We were not transferring what we know from one form to another, but rather remaking the forms altogether.
And when we come together again in a few weeks, not like we used to, and for some still like what we’re doing today, we will remake again. We will not be able to translate what happens this morning exactly into what happens two weeks from now. We must be made new once again. We must lose and grieve and let go and take stock of what is left. And we will do that once more one day when, God-willing, there is a vaccine and church changes yet again in another way. As one of my pastor friends said of this time, “The church can never return to what was. The church’s only movement is always and ever forward.”
Because being led out and learning new ways, dying and resurrecting, being buried with Christ and rising again, being dipped under the waters to come out dripping with new life—these are the rhythms of Christian life. We are not out of the woods or the wilderness, we have not finally reached the ultimate resurrection—but we are moving through the desert like the Israelites trying to find new ways of being, knowing that this flexibility, this elasticity, this on-the-move faith, is our journey with God. That there are times we are merely setting up camp rather than building a temple. We are merely gathering manna for today rather than storing up food for the year. We are merely looking at what is right ahead of us rather than solidifying a five-year-plan.
So, Azle, what will be your testimony? What do you see in God’s moment-by-moment provision?
In your experience of wandering in the wilderness, learning how to be a church over and over again across generations and lifetimes and changing landscapes, what do you see?
In your commitment to casseroles and hospital visits and putting gas in the car of the down and out, quite an investment in something that doesn’t get seen on a billboard or a denominational report, what do you see?
In your experience of unlearning the ways of lines in the sand and learning the ways of love and faithfulness, what do you see?
In a world run by empires that tell you to guard what you value, to build walls and arm yourself to protect number one, to save and to hoard and to hide, to cling to your life and your resources because they’re all you’ve got, and yet here you are breaking a waffle in two as you watch a livestream of a service in month 6 of a pandemic, what do you see?
And in a world that bows down to the myth of scarcity, and tells us to stockpile it all just in case, and elbow your way in because there’s not enough, and yet here you are inviting everyone to the Table because it’s God’s Table after all. What do you see?
What if we closed our eyes—go ahead, close them—and imagined that only in closing our eyes to the world we’ve known, to the one that is familiar albeit damaging and death-dealing, only in closing our eyes to that world, do we see the new world God is calling us to, out into the wilderness.
Trust me, God says.
I hear you, God says.
I am teaching you a new way of being that is unlike what you have been before, one in which I am near to you, and sustaining you, not in Egypt-empire ways, not in the old normal ways, not the pre-pandemic ways, but in wilderness-manna ways, God says.
Here it is.
What do you see? What is it?
Amen.
Sharing Our Resources
Each year, the church does something manna-esque: we make a budget for the year with the hopes that it will be met by the generosity of the congregation. At first glance, the budget may look like your run-of-the-mill line-itemed piece of paper. We have to keep the lights on. We pay the staff. We pay off our building debt.
But budgets are moral and theological documents. When we make a line item for evangelism, we are putting our hope in spreading the good news of Jesus Christ and of this community that gathers around his table. When we make a line item for Food Hub, we commit to answering Christ’s call of feeding him by feeding our neighbors. When we have a line item for building and electricity expenses, we not only have it open to our congregation, we also welcome housing insecure friends and those down on their luck needing some help, who see our light on and come in.
Our commitment to give financially to church is to invest in the faith community we are a part of, the pop-up of the kingdom of God in our neighborhood, and it’s also an act of faith—putting our dollars toward the ever-expanding, inclusive, and vibrant welcome of God to those around us. We reap the harvest of those who have sown seeds in this community before, people we’ve never even met. And we sow seeds for our community now and the generations to come.
If you have not already made a commitment to invest in the community of Azle Christian Church, I encourage you to consider doing so. There are several ways for you to help sustain the ministries of the church through your financial gifts—online, Venmo, text-to-give, or a good ol-fashioned check. See the comments on this video for details.
Finally, if you or someone you know is in need of help during this time, please contact our church office or get in touch with us through Facebook or email.
Benediction
For our benediction today, I invite you to cover one eye and form a binoculars on the other eye:
May your feet be light and your burdens lighter.
May your belly be full and your heart fuller.
May you see with clarity the presence of God among you, if only for today.
May God grant you courage for the work of death and resurrection, remaking the world over and over again.
Amen.