Rev. Dr. Kathy Fuson Hurt

FBC, September 14, 2008

Scripture: Exodus 14:1-13, 21-29

 

 

  Now, voyager, lay here your dazzled head

 

            And so we come once more to this church, after a time apart. Our paths diverged over the summer, led us in many directions: we traveled for pleasure, for business, for necessity. We worshipped at home with the Sunday paper, in the woods and on the mountains and by the ocean and around a campfire, maybe in other churches (and sometimes here). We embraced those separated from us, then parted again; we said goodbye for now—or goodbye forever. Our paths diverged, we ranged far and wide.

 

            Now, we come back to earth from air, to this place made sacred by common experience, shared hopes, borne sorrows. On this holy ground we are nourished with the bread of truths and values that we seek and live out here, together.

 

            We go away, but we return after a time. We return to this church when we reach our limits, bump up against the edges of our compassion, bang our heads into the walls around our understanding. Life challenges us, we adapt; life challenges us again, we adapt; life challenges us further, and we cannot see any possible way to adapt anymore—so we come back here, crying out to God and against God, searching for roots to anchor us that we might grow, extend the limits of what we can do, widen the reach of our capacity to love, take down the walls that block our vision and separate us from others, from God.

 

            Growth may take us away from church; the call to grow further leads us back to church. On this small town corner, in this old building of stone and stained glass, we settle in to watch and wait for the green to push up from the dark.

 

            This church can be too quiet, too predictable. So we roam elsewhere, looking for excitement and action, the kaleidoscope of new ideas and faces and places. Then the days become long, we feel tired of the movement, and we wearily walk back into this sanctuary, to sink once again into its quiet depths. Years of prayers have brought a presence into this space that can soothe frayed souls, making this church a still point in our turning lives and turning world.
 

            And especially now, when each new poll tells us how anxious people are about the war, the economy, the environment, the price of gas, the latest hurricane, the most recent layoffs and foreclosures, when political candidates inspire one moment and disappoint the next, so that real leadership seems absent at a time when it has never been more needed; and especially now, when conversations around our church reflect an anxiety about the drift, the decline in numbers and energy and volunteers, when programs and people inspire one moment and disappoint the next, so that real purpose seems absent at a time when it has never been more needed—especially now, we need the calm spirit this sanctuary holds.

 

            The Israelite people could have used a sanctuary of some sort, as they groaned for generations under the burden of slavery in Egypt. Perhaps after waiting so long for a rescue that did not come, did not even show some possibility of coming, they had given up, consigned themselves to living forever in the darkness of oppression. But against all odds, in the unlikeliest of forms, rescue came: not as a host of angels, but in the guise of two ragged shepherds with dirty feet, untrimmed beards, and a message that no ruler would ever, will ever, listen to, namely that those who were oppressed should simply be released without question, without compensation, but just because it was the right thing to do.

 

            Then began the prolonged tug of war between Moses and Aaron and God, and Pharaoh. While the story can seem, especially in its popular translations, to be a power struggle between Yahweh and Pharaoh, with the release of the Israelites alternately assured and then denied, the real power struggle is in the hearts of the Israelites themselves, between the consciousness of slaves who see themselves as victims, powerless to take action, and the consciousness of people who know themselves to be the children of God, unique, precious, and powerful, capable of any action their hearts desire. Each time a new plague is unfurled and Pharaoh is shown to be helpless against it, the Israelites feel hopeful; then, in the Biblical phrase, Pharaoh’s “heart is hardened,” he determines to not only keep his slaves but to intensify their workload because that is always what the powers of empire do, and the Israelites despair. Success and hope, obstacles and failure, the cycle plays out repeatedly, with no traction being gained by either side. Even when the ultimate plague comes, with all the firstborn children of the Egyptians being slaughtered, so that Pharaoh lets the Israelites get farther away than ever, out of town and all the way to the shore of the Red Sea, so that escape seemed certain—even then, despair returns when Pharaoh’s army shows up in pursuit of the Israelites. No matter what God does, not matter how miraculous the sign, no matter how awesome the power, they still cannot believe that they are not doomed to be in slavery forever.

           

            You may have noticed today, and you can expect to see in weeks to come, more than the usual amount of language about “spirit,” hymns with a theme of spirit, invocations to the Spirit, prayers that invite God to send a spirit among us. When a congregation becomes anxious about its future, it is time to seek a new spirit, a spirit that is empowering rather than disabling. Though this church has been in existence for more than a century, has weathered many crises within and without, some of you are convinced that it stands on the verge of death. We need, it seems, yet another sign that God is still speaking to us and among us, that life is still possible even though we may not be able to see it, may not even be able to imagine it. The magical rescue we had envisioned, in the form of a new program or a new pastor or a new mission project or some sort of new force from without does not appear to be forthcoming. The armies of rising costs and shrinking numbers are gaining on us; ahead of us is a sea of darkness. At such moments, at this moment, it can be hard to believe that we are not doomed to be a small congregation in a large, echoing building forever.

 

            I saw the Cecil B. DeMille rendition of this Biblical story when I was a child, and ever since I have envisioned the confrontation between the Israelites, the Egyptian armies, and the Red Sea in the way it was portrayed in the Ten Commandments movie: Moses raises his hands, a powerful wind comes up, and the sea waters are blown apart so that a dry path between walls of water is made for the Israelites to cross. Once they have made it safely to the other side, Moses lowers his arms and the walls of water cascade back together, drowning the Egyptian army which is only then partway across the sea.

 

            It is a sequence that makes sense, that even seems implies in the words of the scripture. Waters part, then people cross, just as the movie depicted. With such an image firmly fixed in my imagination, it was then a surprise to hear a rabbinical interpretation of this central event in Jewish spiritual history. The rabbi acknowledged that many of his listeners, like myself, had that sequence of parted waters/crossing people in mind when they heard this story. But such a sequence is not correct, the rabbi argued—far from it. What happened, as the rabbi told it, was that no waters parted for the Israelites as the Egyptian army came closer and closer. At the last possible moment, when destruction seemed assured, one lonely Israelite could tolerate the paralysis no longer, and threw himself, herself, into the sea in an utterly foolish effort to swim across—at which point the waters parted, and all the Israelite people were able to cross to safety. Not until one person took initiative, not until someone made the first move, took the first step, did the miracle of liberation unfold.

 

            I can just imagine the outcry when that foolhardy person leapt into the Red Sea. “Are you crazy? The sea is too wide for anyone to swim across. You’ll drown!” Or, “Don’t you trust God to come to our rescue?” Or, “Wait—we haven’t heard from Moses yet, we don’t know what he wants us to do!” Or, “Give it up. We were foolish to believe that we, a bunch of slaves with a stupid shepherd for a leader, could ever escape the reach of Pharaoh.” Or, “We already tried swimming across, don’t you remember? It didn’t work then, and it won’t work now!” Or, “We would do better to turn around and try once more to talk to the Egyptians, appeal to their community spirit.” Or, “Who died and made you God? Who told you to go first, and on whose authority?”   If those responses sound way too familiar to you, it is because they are always the responses whenever a group of slaves or church members or concerned citizens or voters or people anywhere find themselves up against a wall, facing a limitless sea, and no one is willing to take the first step (or in this case, the first plunge). So stalemates continue, Egyptians draw closer and sometimes even overwhelm, until someone, somewhere, has the courage to go first—even when that means going alone.
 

            But once someone, somewhere, goes first, as the rabbi’s interpretation reveals, then the miracle can come. The waters part, the church grows, the country lifts into new directions, all because of the single small opening that the actions of one person provided. It is my responsibility, as a part of this church, to turn it around—and it is your responsibility, each of you, as well. It is my responsibility, as a citizen of a country that has become more taken with power and wealth than with compassion, to turn it around—and it is your responsibility, each of you, as well. It is my responsibility, as a part of creation, to turn our ravaged environment around—and it is your responsibility, each of you, as well. We cannot wait for rescue to swoop down from the sky, nor can we wait for some invisible and nameless other person to go first. We must each of us summon our courage and jump into the waters of uncertainty and anxiety and risk if we are to have any hope of reaching the Promised Land.

 

            I confess that I rather preferred my Cecil B. DeMille version of the crossing of the Red Sea to the rabbi’s interpretation. I am not a swimmer; I am more than willing for someone else to go first; I can hold out hope for a miraculous rescue for a very, very long time. But I also know that the rabbi is closer to the truth than Cecil B. DeMille, that God does not so much take us somewhere but meet up with us where we are and enable us to go beyond where we thought it possible to go. So swimmer or not, I have to be willing to go into the waters first if I am to have any hope of them parting for me. And each of you, as well, must be willing to jump in first if we are to have any hope of the waters parting for our lives, for our church, for our country, for our world. The choir’s anthem said it plainly: “let it begin with me.”

 

            So that it can begin today, I invite you now to close your eyes for a moment and visualize the church you wish we were: who is there? What are we doing? What are you doing? Now visualize some element of our common life, some problem in our community or our country that troubles you, and imagine how you wish it could be: who is there? What are they doing? What are you doing?

 

            O God of infinite possibility, may our hopes and dreams take flight on wings of love.