Pr. Matt James

Lectionary 25a

September 20, 2020

Complaints

Siblings in Christ, grace, peace, and mercy to you from God, Our Creator, our Sustainer, and our Redeemer. Amen.

Until about say seven months ago, I always read this story with a not-small-amount of disdain for the Israelites’ behavior.

The Israelites throughout, well most of their journey through the wilderness seem needy, immature, selfish, closed-minded. It’s only been about a month since they were delivered out of slavery in Egypt—you’d think they’d at least have that at the back of their minds.

And it didn’t start with today’s passage, just days a few days before, desperate for water to quench their thirst in the desert, they finally find water in a place called Marah, but it’s bitter to the taste, undrinkable, and so they complain. God hears Moses’ pleading on their behalf, shows him a tree (or a log, depending on the translation) which he throws into the water, the water becomes… drinkable… sweet even.

And now, and now they’re starving. And so they complain, or grumble, or groan.

I used to think this was ridiculous.

Until today.

Six months into a pandemic that has uprooted nearly every aspect of life as we know it.

And weeks into another season of unimaginable destruction on the West Coast with record breaking fires.

While many in the southern parts of our country brace for yet another hurricane-strength storm.

And too many communities to count continue to experience state-sanctioned violence against protesters, and black and brown bodies continue to be threatened and killed by police.

And hospitals and other essential businesses continued to be overrun, their resources, including staff exhausted to the point of breaking.

And now, news of the heart-rending death of the notorious Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

And… I’ll just stop there.

What I am coming to realize is… we are in the wilderness.

And perhaps like you. I am exhausted.

I struggle to accomplish some of the most simple tasks. I am uncertain of the future; this journey that we’re on. And I’m afraid, and heartbroken, and worn thin about what the future might hold, where our journey will lead us.

And… I think I have a new appreciation for the complaining Israelites. Their lives, yes while under oppression and slavery, were uprooted. Even though they were slaves, they had food. They had a place to lay their heads, they knew, probably more or less what each day might bring.

And now for them, their liberation has also brought uncertainty: of what they might eat each morning and night, what other threats to their livelihood they encounter in the desert wilderness, even where their journey might lead them.

And so, I see their grumbling, their complaining, their unease, not as greed, or selfish, but as well… real. Because, it seems that calling out, crying out is all they know to do. And I think of another biblical genre: lament. And so, perhaps, yes, maybe their complaining, their cries, their lament is, in fact, justified.

I will admit that like the Israelites, and perhaps even you, I lament much of our current times as well as the past; the way ‘life used to be’. I lament the exhaustion, and brokenness, and uncertainty, and fear that I is all too real for me these days.

But…. I also don’t want to return to those days.

Yes, I do want to be able to gather together to worship with you in person.

I do want our voices to join together in song.

I do want to travel, safely, and comfortably, to see family and friends.

Or to simply walk outside, or go anywhere really, without a face covering.

But I also want Black and Brown bodies to matter…. Without us having to remind one another.

I want our planet to heal, and thrive for all creatures.

I want a country that honors the fullness of the humanity of all its citizens, and neighbors, and guests.

I want to trust that my elected officials will faithfully govern so that all people might have access to the basic necessities of life, and preserve our planet and natural resources.

And so, here in this wilderness, I complain, I grumble, I lament.

But the story of our ancestors, the Israelites, does not end with their cries.

God hears them.

God hears their cries, their complaining, their lament. And God responds.

When the Israelites cry out for deliverance. God liberated them.

When they cry out for protection, God made a way, literally through the waters of the Red Sea.

When they cry out for food, God provides.

Much scholarship and conjecture has been offered about what exactly that manna that appeared in the morning dew was and where exactly those quails that appeared at night were coming from or going to. But as Terence Freitheim, retired Hebrew Bible professor from Luther Seminary observes, these were not extraordinary means. This was not a miraculous parting of a sea. Or a celestial sign like a pillar of cloud or a pillar of fire to mark God’s presence and guide their way. But simple, ordinary means. Professor Freitheim writes:

‘It is precisely the “natural” that is seen as a gift from God. God’s gifts to Israel are to be found not only in the unusual but also in the everyday.’[1]

God hears the cries of God’s people and God responds. Sometimes, oftentimes, in the simplest of ways. We may not, we likely will not experience earth shattering change instantaneously—that would probably bring about just as much trauma. But our God hears us. And God provides, yes, even in the midst of the ordinary.

Like water.

When we are woven into the salvation story of our God at baptism. Through plain old water poured over us, or that fully envelops us when we are dunked in that font. And through just a few words: I baptize you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. And the reminder: Child of God, you have been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ. Forever.

We, you and I, all of us, simple, ordinary (and beautiful!) human beings are gifted, called, knit, into God’s saving work in this world.

You and I, simple as we might be, were made to be God’s gift, God’s response to the needs of our fellow creatures in this world.

In our own actions, in our own words, we are a sign of God’s never-ending love, not only for one another, but for this broken down, dying, lamenting world.

And when exhaustion, or physical or mental illness, or the forces of oppression hold one or a number of us down, we have one another gift: this community.

This simple, beautiful, body of Christ to lament, to shout, to protest, to vote and help others vote, to wear a face covering, to simply be a sign of God’s grace, of strength, of hope, of love in this world. That as we make our way together, through the wilderness, in the midst of all that we cannot quite bear, God hears our cries, God responds in ways both big and small.

This news, simple as it might seem, is food for my journey, and I pray, in these most uncertain times that lie ahead, this good news feeds and sustains you too.

In the name of the +Father, and the +Son, and the +Holy Spirit, Mother of us all. Amen.

[1] Fretheim, T. E. (1991). Exodus (pp. 181–182). Louisville, KY: John Knox Press.