The Proof Is In The Pudding
Sermon
Sermons On The First Readings
Series II, Cycle A
Object:
It is an incongruous scene: a multitude in the desert.
The desert is supposed to be desolate, barren, devoid of life. There may be the occasional sturdy breed of plant, animal, or insect that can survive the inhospitable environment, but little else. Rivers and lakes may teem with fish; the forests are full of birds and wildlife; the fields and prairies are home to countless animals; the desert is a mostly unpopulated expanse that lacks almost everything necessary to sustain life.
And yet, as our camera zooms in on one particular portion of the vast wilderness that lies between Egypt and Canaan, we are astonished to see life there. A lot of life. Hundreds of thousands of men, women, children, and animals. Where we expect to see tumbleweed blowing along unimpeded, we see instead a crowded throng of tents, families, and cattle.
It is an incongruous scene: a multitude in the desert. How in the world can they all survive there?
Well, that was their question, too.
They were the children of Israel. Having been slaves in Egypt for centuries, they were now finally free. But their new life of freedom was not to be lived out in the land of their former captivity. No, God had promised to give them a different land -- one reputedly flowing with milk and honey.
In between those two locations, however -- between the place of their bondage and the place of God's promise -- there was a journey to be made. The Bible says that they journeyed by stages, reminding us that this was a process. They could not get from here to there in a sprint, a burst of enthusiasm. Perhaps, as they emerged from the borders of Egypt as freshly freed people, they felt that they could leap broad deserts in a single bound. The reality was that the Israelites would have to endure a lengthier process: They would have to journey by stages.
We almost always do, of course. There is not much of lasting importance that can be had by a single inspired burst of energy and will. We may embark on some journeys with such enthusiasm -- marriage, a new job, discipleship, and the like -- but the journey always outlasts our initial enthusiasm. Few important destinations in our lives are sprinting distance.
Most of the stages of Israel's particular journey were experienced in the wilderness in and around the Sinai Peninsula. And that wilderness was no place for a group like these Israelites.
The problem, obviously, was the provisions.
Every responsible person who has set out on a trip has made these calculations. Money, food, fuel, clothing -- how much will I need? I will need more if the trip is longer. I will need more still if I am taking additional people with me. And I will need still more if I am not guaranteed that such provisions will be available along the way.
See, then, the enormous problem confronting the Israelites.
The journey is a long one, indeed. At a minimum, it was to take several months. (And in the end, it took an entire generation!)
Next, consider the numbers. It was certainly feasible for a caravan to pack enough food and water to cross this wilderness. Likewise, a small, manageable group of nomads could make the journey. But how can you possibly provide for the needs of over a million men, women, and children, plus significant flocks and herds, in the middle of nowhere?
And, finally, consider the dearth of resources along the way.
You and I live in a very plush culture when it comes to travel. Stores, restaurants, motels, and gas stations line our highways. Every need is anticipated and accommodated, right down to high-speed wireless internet access.
But for the Israelites in the wilderness, there were no such resources. Nor were there even the ordinary along-the-way provisions of creeks, lakes, fields, wells, gardens, and fruit trees. They could travel for miles without finding enough food and water for even one person, let alone an entire community of people and animals.
So it is that the community came to camp at a place called Rephidim, where there was no water. There, desperate with their understandable hunger and thirst, they complained.
Parents are well-acquainted with this scene -- at least on a small scale. My wife and I have three young children, and we enjoy taking family trips together. Yet, when any of the basic physical needs goes unmet, a certain kind of chaos ensues. The need to eat, drink, sleep, or find a bathroom leads to complaining and whining, which in turn creates an unpleasant environment in the car. There's a growing tension and unhappiness, and the parents try to quell the uprising with a promise: "Only five more miles -- just hold on!"
I multiply in my mind our three children by some astronomical figure to imagine the unhappy mob in Moses' backseat. And he had no such reassurance to offer them! There was no green sign promising relief at the next exit, a few miles away. Rather, there was just more of the same -- dry, desolate desert -- as far as the eye could see in every direction.
Moses and the people snipe at one another.
"We want water," they cry.
"Why are you bugging me about it," he shoots back, suggesting that their real complaint is with God.
But the people do not take their complaint to God. Instead, they fuss at Moses still more: "Why did you bring us and our children and our livestock here just to die of thirst?"
This must have been a galling business for Moses. You remember that, back at the burning bush, he wanted nothing to do with this whole project. He was quite unwilling to take the assignment, but God effectively forced him into it. Now that they were out of Egypt, it was God who was setting the itinerary -- leading with cloudy and fiery pillars -- as well as setting the menu. But Moses was the one who had to take the heat when the people were discontented.
Moses is the classic middleman. Like the waiter or waitress who gets an earful when it's actually the folks in the kitchen who made a mistake, or like the ticket counter agent who has to put up with the moaning when a flight is delayed; Moses mans the complaint department for what was, beginning to end, God's project.
He takes his own complaint, therefore, to God. "What shall I do with this people? They are almost ready to stone me." And, in response, God directs Moses to a rock that will become for the people a miraculous source of water.
What followed then must have been a sight to behold. The water miracle that gets the most attention in Exodus is the parting of the Red Sea. But this water-from-the-rock event must have been an eyeful, too. After all, no mere trickle, no ordinary faucet was going to suffice for this community of men, women, children, and livestock. The rock must have produced a torrent of water, as though some dam had burst within it.
When the whole episode is all said and done, however, Moses gives the place a pair of unhappy names. "He called the place Massah and Meribah." Massah was a Hebrew word meaning "test" or "despair." Meribah was a Hebrew word meaning "strife" or "contention."
At some level, the names are disappointing ones, and they probably reflect how cumulatively wounded Moses must have been. Why didn't he name the place "provision"? Why not "need met," "thirst satisfied," or "problem solved"? It is an example that may invite us to look in the mirror and ask how we remember times and places. Will our memory be dominated by the unhappiness and troubles, or will it let God have the final word?
Moses "called the place Massah and Meribah, because the Israelites quarreled and tested the Lord, saying, 'Is the Lord among us or not?' "
There, at the conclusion of the episode, we meet with a detail not disclosed earlier in the narrative. The people tested the Lord, saying, "Is the Lord among us or not?"
Certain questions strike at the heart of our faith and our doubts. When Jesus was sleeping through the storm that had the disciples panicking, they cried out, "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?" (Mark 4:38). The suffering psalmist asked, "How long must your servant endure? When will you judge those who persecute me?" (Psalm 119:84). Gideon saw the circumstances of his people, and wondered, "If the Lord is with us, why then has all this happened to us? And where are all his wonderful deeds that our ancestors recounted to us?" (Judges 6:13). And Habakkuk called out in the face of troubles and injustices, "O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen?" (Habakkuk 1:2).
At Rephidim, the people of Israel voiced such a quintessential question of faith: "Is the Lord among us or not?"
We may be instinctively sympathetic with Israel's question, for it may be a question we have asked along the way. In a hospital room, in a financial crisis, in the aftermath of some natural disaster, in the wake of some tragic accident, we have wondered, too: "Is the Lord among us or not?"
On the other hand, look closely at these people and what they have experienced. They have witnessed firsthand the mighty deliverance of God. They have seen the series of plagues that broke Egypt and eventually broke their bonds. They have watched the Red Sea open up before them, and then close behind them at Pharaoh's expense. They have been greeted each morning by the massive cloudy pillar, and gone to sleep each night with the fiery pillar visible outside their tents. They have been abundantly fed with quail, and daily sustained with manna. And yet, when they get a little thirsty, they question the very presence of God: "Is the Lord among us or not?"
It may not be a sympathetic question, at all. It may, instead, be a myopic and faithless question, and an offense to the God who has guided and provided every step along the way.
We human beings are relentlessly physical creatures. When we are confronted with a physical need or problem or pain, therefore, it's hard for us to think about much else.
Satan knew this about us. Skeptical and unimpressed by Job's initial faithfulness, Satan curtly challenged God, "Skin for skin! All that people have they will give to save their lives. But stretch out your hand now and touch his bone and his flesh, and he will curse you to your face" (Job 2:4-5).
Job did not sink to Satan's expectation, but the Israelites in the wilderness often did. Faced with a physical need, they asked a question that cut to the very core of God's faithfulness.
How shall we determine whether the Lord is among us or not? How does one measure or judge or prove such a thing? For the Israelites, it was a matter of hunger and thirst -- whether their needs were met. The proof was in the pudding. For as long as their tummies were full, they were willing to trust and obey. But when the provisions of food or drink were interrupted, it called into question the very presence of God.
It is a vain, self-o-centric way of doing theology and faith. But it is not uncommon. We confuse the goodness of God with the goodness of our circumstances. There in the desert, it made for an incongruous scene: a multitude of people who had been freed, led, and fed by God, wondering aloud whether he was there or not. Amen.
The desert is supposed to be desolate, barren, devoid of life. There may be the occasional sturdy breed of plant, animal, or insect that can survive the inhospitable environment, but little else. Rivers and lakes may teem with fish; the forests are full of birds and wildlife; the fields and prairies are home to countless animals; the desert is a mostly unpopulated expanse that lacks almost everything necessary to sustain life.
And yet, as our camera zooms in on one particular portion of the vast wilderness that lies between Egypt and Canaan, we are astonished to see life there. A lot of life. Hundreds of thousands of men, women, children, and animals. Where we expect to see tumbleweed blowing along unimpeded, we see instead a crowded throng of tents, families, and cattle.
It is an incongruous scene: a multitude in the desert. How in the world can they all survive there?
Well, that was their question, too.
They were the children of Israel. Having been slaves in Egypt for centuries, they were now finally free. But their new life of freedom was not to be lived out in the land of their former captivity. No, God had promised to give them a different land -- one reputedly flowing with milk and honey.
In between those two locations, however -- between the place of their bondage and the place of God's promise -- there was a journey to be made. The Bible says that they journeyed by stages, reminding us that this was a process. They could not get from here to there in a sprint, a burst of enthusiasm. Perhaps, as they emerged from the borders of Egypt as freshly freed people, they felt that they could leap broad deserts in a single bound. The reality was that the Israelites would have to endure a lengthier process: They would have to journey by stages.
We almost always do, of course. There is not much of lasting importance that can be had by a single inspired burst of energy and will. We may embark on some journeys with such enthusiasm -- marriage, a new job, discipleship, and the like -- but the journey always outlasts our initial enthusiasm. Few important destinations in our lives are sprinting distance.
Most of the stages of Israel's particular journey were experienced in the wilderness in and around the Sinai Peninsula. And that wilderness was no place for a group like these Israelites.
The problem, obviously, was the provisions.
Every responsible person who has set out on a trip has made these calculations. Money, food, fuel, clothing -- how much will I need? I will need more if the trip is longer. I will need more still if I am taking additional people with me. And I will need still more if I am not guaranteed that such provisions will be available along the way.
See, then, the enormous problem confronting the Israelites.
The journey is a long one, indeed. At a minimum, it was to take several months. (And in the end, it took an entire generation!)
Next, consider the numbers. It was certainly feasible for a caravan to pack enough food and water to cross this wilderness. Likewise, a small, manageable group of nomads could make the journey. But how can you possibly provide for the needs of over a million men, women, and children, plus significant flocks and herds, in the middle of nowhere?
And, finally, consider the dearth of resources along the way.
You and I live in a very plush culture when it comes to travel. Stores, restaurants, motels, and gas stations line our highways. Every need is anticipated and accommodated, right down to high-speed wireless internet access.
But for the Israelites in the wilderness, there were no such resources. Nor were there even the ordinary along-the-way provisions of creeks, lakes, fields, wells, gardens, and fruit trees. They could travel for miles without finding enough food and water for even one person, let alone an entire community of people and animals.
So it is that the community came to camp at a place called Rephidim, where there was no water. There, desperate with their understandable hunger and thirst, they complained.
Parents are well-acquainted with this scene -- at least on a small scale. My wife and I have three young children, and we enjoy taking family trips together. Yet, when any of the basic physical needs goes unmet, a certain kind of chaos ensues. The need to eat, drink, sleep, or find a bathroom leads to complaining and whining, which in turn creates an unpleasant environment in the car. There's a growing tension and unhappiness, and the parents try to quell the uprising with a promise: "Only five more miles -- just hold on!"
I multiply in my mind our three children by some astronomical figure to imagine the unhappy mob in Moses' backseat. And he had no such reassurance to offer them! There was no green sign promising relief at the next exit, a few miles away. Rather, there was just more of the same -- dry, desolate desert -- as far as the eye could see in every direction.
Moses and the people snipe at one another.
"We want water," they cry.
"Why are you bugging me about it," he shoots back, suggesting that their real complaint is with God.
But the people do not take their complaint to God. Instead, they fuss at Moses still more: "Why did you bring us and our children and our livestock here just to die of thirst?"
This must have been a galling business for Moses. You remember that, back at the burning bush, he wanted nothing to do with this whole project. He was quite unwilling to take the assignment, but God effectively forced him into it. Now that they were out of Egypt, it was God who was setting the itinerary -- leading with cloudy and fiery pillars -- as well as setting the menu. But Moses was the one who had to take the heat when the people were discontented.
Moses is the classic middleman. Like the waiter or waitress who gets an earful when it's actually the folks in the kitchen who made a mistake, or like the ticket counter agent who has to put up with the moaning when a flight is delayed; Moses mans the complaint department for what was, beginning to end, God's project.
He takes his own complaint, therefore, to God. "What shall I do with this people? They are almost ready to stone me." And, in response, God directs Moses to a rock that will become for the people a miraculous source of water.
What followed then must have been a sight to behold. The water miracle that gets the most attention in Exodus is the parting of the Red Sea. But this water-from-the-rock event must have been an eyeful, too. After all, no mere trickle, no ordinary faucet was going to suffice for this community of men, women, children, and livestock. The rock must have produced a torrent of water, as though some dam had burst within it.
When the whole episode is all said and done, however, Moses gives the place a pair of unhappy names. "He called the place Massah and Meribah." Massah was a Hebrew word meaning "test" or "despair." Meribah was a Hebrew word meaning "strife" or "contention."
At some level, the names are disappointing ones, and they probably reflect how cumulatively wounded Moses must have been. Why didn't he name the place "provision"? Why not "need met," "thirst satisfied," or "problem solved"? It is an example that may invite us to look in the mirror and ask how we remember times and places. Will our memory be dominated by the unhappiness and troubles, or will it let God have the final word?
Moses "called the place Massah and Meribah, because the Israelites quarreled and tested the Lord, saying, 'Is the Lord among us or not?' "
There, at the conclusion of the episode, we meet with a detail not disclosed earlier in the narrative. The people tested the Lord, saying, "Is the Lord among us or not?"
Certain questions strike at the heart of our faith and our doubts. When Jesus was sleeping through the storm that had the disciples panicking, they cried out, "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?" (Mark 4:38). The suffering psalmist asked, "How long must your servant endure? When will you judge those who persecute me?" (Psalm 119:84). Gideon saw the circumstances of his people, and wondered, "If the Lord is with us, why then has all this happened to us? And where are all his wonderful deeds that our ancestors recounted to us?" (Judges 6:13). And Habakkuk called out in the face of troubles and injustices, "O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen?" (Habakkuk 1:2).
At Rephidim, the people of Israel voiced such a quintessential question of faith: "Is the Lord among us or not?"
We may be instinctively sympathetic with Israel's question, for it may be a question we have asked along the way. In a hospital room, in a financial crisis, in the aftermath of some natural disaster, in the wake of some tragic accident, we have wondered, too: "Is the Lord among us or not?"
On the other hand, look closely at these people and what they have experienced. They have witnessed firsthand the mighty deliverance of God. They have seen the series of plagues that broke Egypt and eventually broke their bonds. They have watched the Red Sea open up before them, and then close behind them at Pharaoh's expense. They have been greeted each morning by the massive cloudy pillar, and gone to sleep each night with the fiery pillar visible outside their tents. They have been abundantly fed with quail, and daily sustained with manna. And yet, when they get a little thirsty, they question the very presence of God: "Is the Lord among us or not?"
It may not be a sympathetic question, at all. It may, instead, be a myopic and faithless question, and an offense to the God who has guided and provided every step along the way.
We human beings are relentlessly physical creatures. When we are confronted with a physical need or problem or pain, therefore, it's hard for us to think about much else.
Satan knew this about us. Skeptical and unimpressed by Job's initial faithfulness, Satan curtly challenged God, "Skin for skin! All that people have they will give to save their lives. But stretch out your hand now and touch his bone and his flesh, and he will curse you to your face" (Job 2:4-5).
Job did not sink to Satan's expectation, but the Israelites in the wilderness often did. Faced with a physical need, they asked a question that cut to the very core of God's faithfulness.
How shall we determine whether the Lord is among us or not? How does one measure or judge or prove such a thing? For the Israelites, it was a matter of hunger and thirst -- whether their needs were met. The proof was in the pudding. For as long as their tummies were full, they were willing to trust and obey. But when the provisions of food or drink were interrupted, it called into question the very presence of God.
It is a vain, self-o-centric way of doing theology and faith. But it is not uncommon. We confuse the goodness of God with the goodness of our circumstances. There in the desert, it made for an incongruous scene: a multitude of people who had been freed, led, and fed by God, wondering aloud whether he was there or not. Amen.
