Holy Ground, Holy Work: A Sermon on Exodus 3:1-15

“Holy Ground, Holy Work”
Exodus 3:1-15
August 31, 2008

The world is shot through with the holy. We never know where we might encounter it. We might encounter it…

* In a sanctuary on a Sunday morning, when a particular hymn takes our breath away, or brings tears to our eyes.

* At a 12-step meeting, when a grizzled alcoholic with 20 years of hard drinking followed by another 20 years of sanity, sobriety and service, speaks the truth and we hear it and know it, deep down in our hearts.

* On a hike in the woods, when we come upon an ancient and majestic tree, and realize it has been on the earth roughly 10 times as long as we have.

* In a hospital delivery room, when a nurse places a brand new human being into our waiting arms.

* At a concert, when we hear music that makes our heart leap in our chest, and we recognize that this is true, this is real, this has something or Someone behind it that we want to know better.

* Sitting around tables, bibles open, when the words on the page take up residence in our hearts, and we know they will never leave.

* Floating in the bright, clear, cold ocean, as the rolling of the waves holds us up and we abruptly realize we are in the presence of something infinitely larger than we are, something both dangerous and thrilling, both inviting and terrifying.

You can probably name other places and times and circumstances. The world is shot through with the holy. We never know where or when or how or with whom we might encounter it.

Moses had his meeting with the Holy at a time in his life when he was, perhaps, at a low ebb. You know the famous story of his early years. How the people of Israel sought refuge in Egypt during a time of famine. How they were suddenly, under a new administration, looked upon with distrust and dismay, as if these resident aliens, these immigrants, were dangerous… and so they were taken into slavery. You know how the Pharaoh decided that all Hebrew boys should be killed at birth, but he was subverted by the clever, fast-thinking Hebrew midwives. You know how, thanks to the wily and resourceful women in his life—his mother, his sister, and even the Pharaoh’s own daughter—Moses was drawn out of the water that might have been his death, and given another chance at life.

This adoptee seems to have been raised with an acute sense of the plight of his family of origin. Though he was raised by a princess, given every advantage as her son, he was tuned in to the brutality being leveled against the Hebrews. He impulsively intervened and killed an Egyptian who was beating a Hebrew slave. Because of that action, he himself became a refugee. He ran into the wilderness, to Midian. There, like other biblical men before him, he came to a well and met his future bride. And here we find him, Moses: born to an oppressed people, raised in the household of royalty, tending flocks for his father-in-law.

We might wonder what was going on in Moses’ mind before he came upon the unearthly sight of the burning bush. Was he thinking about the home he had lost? Was he remembering his royal family? Or, perhaps, did he have vague memories of the mother who cared for him until he was weaned? Was he remembering the moment when he took the life of that Egyptian? Playing it over and over in his head, wondering if things might have turned out differently? Or was he entirely engaged with the process of shepherding? Shepherding… not a job for sissies. The original tough guys, ready to beat off lions or poachers with their staffs at a moment’s notice. The original nursemaids, tending the weakest of the flock when they were injured. The original outcasts, since they were always “unclean,” and therefore unwelcome in polite society.

Whatever his thoughts, they must have evaporated in the presence of the bush that blazed and yet was not consumed. Here is the holy, dangerous and thrilling, inviting and terrifying. And Moses did an incredibly important thing at just that moment: he stopped. He stopped to look at that holy thing, to try to understand it. That is when he heard that voice… we know it from films as the voice of Charlton Heston… that voice issuing the double call, his name, “Moses, Moses!” Occasionally, in scripture, God calls to one of God’s people, and it is particularly urgent: That moment when Abraham has the knife poised at his son’s throat. That long night when Samuel is asleep in the temple, and God wants to draft him to clean up all the corruption. This is one of those moments. It is urgent. The voice of God calls Moses’ name twice, and Moses does what all these biblical characters do: he says, “Here I am!” Which means, I am ready, and I am willing. I am ready to hear what you have to say to me, God. And I am willing to do as you say.

God tells Moses, take off your shoes, man! The place where you are standing is holy! A friend said to me this week, I wonder how many times Moses had walked by that place before? How many times had he looked at that same bush, and seen nothing but… some shrubbery? How many times have I looked at my own children and not felt the holy hand of God in my life, just impatience that I walked in after work to a sink full of dishes? How many times have I taken a dip in the ocean and not felt the touch of eternity for all my pre-occupation with the discomfort of appearing publicly in a bathing suit? How many times have I been in the presence of the holy, and simply passed on by, busy anticipating the next meeting or the next phone call or the grocery list or the to-do list?

Of course, when we do slow down enough to notice that something holy is in our midst, we run the risk of God dumping into our laps one of those completely overwhelming, impossible tasks God likes to save for his special favorites. Let my people go! Build me a temple! Go to the ends of the earth to tell people the good news! Or, maybe, Raise this child for the next 18 years, keep her safe, and help her to become a good person! Or, Time to teach Sunday School—even though you’ve never done it before! Or, Why don’t you start a soup kitchen in your community? The kinds of jobs that sometimes, make us go, Oh, God, are you kidding me?

Which is, pretty much, exactly what Moses says. You want me to go where? And to whom? And do what? Are you kidding me? Me? Who am I? I can’t start a soup kitchen… I can’t even make soup! I can’t organize a league for the Boys and Girls Club… I have no earthly idea even where to start! I can’t go to Pharaoh… remember I’m wanted for murder in Egypt? What are you thinking, Lord?

God meets Moses’ objections with the one answer that cannot be discounted or refuted or ignored. When Moses asks, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” God doesn’t recite Moses’ resume. God doesn’t say, “Well, you were raised in the Pharaoh’s household, maybe you could use those connections to your advantage. And, hey, the Israelites are your people after all. And you were pretty brave with that Egyptian… and you’re a natural with the sheep!” God doesn’t do that. When Moses points to his own deficiencies, God points to divine sufficiency. God’s answer is simple and complete: “I will be with you.”

I will be with you. When we find ourselves walking on holy ground, and realize that God has given us holy work to do, we have the assurance that we aren’t doing it alone. God is with us. The success of the enterprise doesn’t depend on us, on our brilliance, on our strength, or on our determination. All it depends on is our willingness to hear God’s call and to respond in the affirmative. “Here I am.”

But there is something else to consider: When we find ourselves walking on holy ground, and realize that God has given us holy work to do, it is usually because God somehow requires human partners to carry out the divine plans. God chooses to work through human agents. I suppose, if God had wanted, God could have simply kept the Egyptians in a nice deep sleep and had the Israelites awaken to a new day of freedom, high-tailing it out of town. God, being God, can do that sort of thing. But that does not seem to be the way God works. God chooses human beings… often the most unlikely human beings… to be the conduits of God’s saving work. A fugitive from justice, sent to speak to most powerful and brutal ruler of the land—that’s Moses. A woman, born into slavery, who escapes and goes on thirteen separate missions to rescue more than 70 slaves—that’s the woman they called Moses, Harriet Tubman. I’m sure you can think of other examples of God choosing the unlikely, frail human to do the mighty, saving work.

The good news is: God isn’t calling most of us to rescue whole nations. But the sobering news is: God is calling us. Maybe not to the grand things that make the news, but certainly to the “Do-what-you-can-to-make-things-better” things that work quietly behind the scenes. Maybe you and I can’t solve the problem of oppressed people singlehandedly. But we can sign a petition, get involved with a reputable organization. Maybe we can’t solve world hunger or even local hunger on our own—but we can faithfully bring a couple of cans for CHOW every week, and volunteer at one of the local soup kitchens, while we’re at it. I invite you to ask yourself: what is the holy work to which God is calling me?

The world is shot through with holiness. The earth, along with everything that is in it, is God’s. Every tree. Every person. Opportunities to experience the holiness of God’s handiwork are, literally, waiting for us on every corner, each time we meet another human being, every time we look out our windows or take a breath. And the world, as I know you’ve heard me say many times, is both beautiful and broken. God is calling us… every minute of every day. God is calling us to take part in the work of mending creation, healing that brokenness. We who walk the holy ground are called to God’s holy work. Are you ready? Thanks be to God. Amen.

Image: "Burning Bush" Quilt by Gwen Jones, at Professional Art Quilt Alliance

A Hair Tale

When I was in the sixth grade my hair was so long I could sit on it. And I sometimes did! It was also heavy and hot and not exactly easy combing after a shampoo.

Near the end of that year, I began getting headaches. My mom began to suspect the headaches were related to the hair, the sitting on of which happened occasionally. I did not disabuse her of this notion. I'd been trying for something other than long, long hair since the second grade, but she had not budged.

There were other possibilities for the headaches as well. For example, my mom let me know in sixth grade that I was expected to take home the "General Excellence" award when I graduated from my elementary school. Which was in three years, at the end of eighth grade. Stress and anxiety were a possibility.

One day my mom, rather tight-lipped, said, "Alright. Let's get your hair cut." And we went to the salon next door, and they lopped off about fifteen inches, giving me a cut that was below the shoulders... still rather long-ish, but lighter, more fun.

In years to come, my mother pointed to that hair cut as the moment when all the troubles began. She said, my personality changed. I was not the same daughter she'd had. And she was frank about the fact that she didn't like me as much.

I think we can all figure out what else was going on in my life that year. Hormones were involved. I wasn't a little girl any longer; I was an adolescent. And, evidently, that was pretty hard on my mom. She was very jealous of my friends.... she did her best to break up my closest friendships (a project that lasted through my wedding, shockingly enough).

So I imagine I come to the issue of hair somewhat... fraught.

This weekend Petra went to an appointment (which I scheduled at her request) to have-- can you guess?-- fifteen inches of her hair lopped off for "Locks of Love," an organization that provides wigs for low income kids who lose their hair because of illness. Her dad took her; she's with him this weekend. At 11:20 this morning, as I sat in my office waiting for the commencement of a funeral luncheon, I received a text with the picture from my last post. Later, the picture above showed up on Petra's Facebook profile. (For a reminder of the hair that was cut, see this lovely shot from Table Rock on Peaks Island, ME).

It's gorgeous, it's hip. It gives me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I am not my mother. I love this girl, and I don't need to play out my childhood psychodramas on her. Right?

Right!

Who's That Girl???

Because, sometimes a girl needs a new look. That's why!

Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!!!

Because we people who voted for the senator from New York in the primaries cannot tell the difference between a woman

• with 30 years' experience in public service and policy;
• who in the Senate serves on the Health, Education, Labor and Pensions Committee, the Environment and Public Works Committee, and the Senate Armed Services Committee;
• who is consistently in favor of women's productive freedom;
• who is consistently in favor of tough handgun regulation;
  
• who had a front row seat for the policy-making for two presidential terms;

And a woman

• who, after serving as mayor of a town of under 10,000, has completed less than half a term as governor;
• who is a lifelong member of the NRA;
• and who is anti-choice.

I can't tell the difference, can you???

OK, I'm done. But... did he really think we would fall for this?

"We Are a Better Country than This."

So... it has finally come to pass. Another barrier broken down, another way in which we citizens of the US are just a little more... free tonight.

It has been an interesting Democratic Convention. Like many women of my generation and slightly older, I misted up at the sight of Hillary Rodham Clinton and gave a couple of whoops at various points during her speech. Ted Kennedy, on the other hand, completely undid me... the history behind that man's life of public service.

Joe Biden charmed me all over again with that brilliant smile of his... did any vice presidential candidate ever look like he was having so much fun?

But the week, and of course, the night, belonged to the Senator from Illinois. From the gracious gestures by which he sought to heal the rifts in the democratic party (including having the Senator from New York call for his nomination by acclamation-- beautiful) to his words upon accepting his nomination tonight, the man did what he needed to do. He showed that he has what it takes to lead, not only this country, but this nation.

The words that will stay with me for a long time are these:
You know, this country of ours has more wealth than any nation, but that's not what makes us rich. We have the most powerful military on Earth, but that's not what makes us strong. Our universities and our culture are the envy of the world, but that's not what keeps the world coming to our shores.
Instead, it is that American spirit, that American promise, that pushes us forward even when the path is uncertain; that binds us together in spite of our differences; that makes us fix our eye not on what is seen, but what is unseen, that better place around the bend.

The leaders and the policies of the last 8 years have not called us to be the best we can be. They have appealed to the lowest common denominators of human nature... and, friends, I'm a Calvinist. That stuff ain't pretty. Finally. Finally, we have someone willing and ready to articulate a possibility of generosity and not every one for himself in an ugly zero-sum game. A possibility of unity and not a cynical exploitation of us-vs-them. A possibility that we don't need to conform to one narrow definition of "patriot" or "citizen" in order to have some value in this land. My good sweet Lord, it is about time. High time.

Image: Todd Heisler, The New York Times

Aw, Mom, Do I HAVE To Go Back to Work Today???

That's how I'm feeling this morning. I'm heading back to the office one year minus one day from the day I preached for the call at St. Sociable. (First three posts... actually, last three posts, August 26, 26 and 25... from last August tell all about it). And... a lot has happened in a year.

Last year on this day, I was the preacher they hoped they might like. Today, I'm their pastor. I've gotten to baptize their kids and welcome them as members and marry them and stand at their sickbeds and over their graves. I've attended, oh, probably more than a hundred meetings with them, and done close to that many home communions. Last year all was hope and expectation. Today, all is "much to be done" and some measure of reality.

I still think there is a honeymoon aspect to our lives together, but maybe with a good match you still hear people saying they love you a year later. I'm not sure. This is my first practically permanent pastorate (they'll vote on that at some point), so I don't know exactly how these things go. But the feeling's mutual. Good friend MoreCows named her blog "You've Really Got to Love Your People," and that's a good mantra to carry around in the doings of my days.

So what gives? Why am I so... whiny today? I have been approaching the end of my vacation with funereal gloom. I feel bummed not to have more time. But, then, I went and re-read those posts from last August... remembered the delicious anticipation of the newness of the call. That was a wonderful thing to do. I feel again the joy of finding and being found, the thrill of being chosen. I am ready. Philippians 4:13 darling!!!

My prayer for today:

Author of all my blessings... my life, my loves, my children, my abilities, my call... Come upon me now. Fill me with the newness of each day, each challenge. Teach me to love my people. Teach me to meet the joys, the sorrows, the hornet's nests and the tastes of honey with equanimity and gratitude for it all. Grant me this one extraordinary privilege: that I may show, in some way, the enormity of your love. In your holy and unpronounceable name I pray. Amen.

J and I

I'm home, as mentioned last time, from all my nomadic wanderings. It is always good to climb into my bed after any length of time away, and this was no exception. It was extra-wonderful to get to spend some quality time with two of my longest-standing friends, G and J.

J and I met our freshman year at Big Catholic U. I was a transplant from a coastal town in a mid-Atlantic state, and J was a native New Englander, complete with the elongated "ah" sound in her speech. (She takes Baahths. She cuts the donut in haahlf.) She came to my dorm room with one of my roommates, who explained that they were in Latin class together. She was adorable... quirky, well-read, with a vocabulary that made you feel smarter just to listen to her talk, beautifully Irish with brown-to-auburn hair and freckles.

She also came with quite a family history-- not my story to tell, but it broke my heart to hear of the way her parents let her down. Within a year or so, J and I were part of the same crowd-- a bunch of English and Theater majors (I was struggling along with Bio and Philosophy, myself) who lived, it seemed, from play to play.

Four girls and three guys, and the guys all shared the same first name, S. Everyone, it seemed, was in love with one or another S at some point. In the middle of sophomore year, I had a dream about one of the S's, and, reader, I married him. Eventually. J was there for it all. She was a witness.

J and I attended my first screening of the Rockly Horror Show together. J and I lamented together over the unavailability of our designated S's. J and I had birthdays that took place within a week of one another. For a description of my first ever grown-up dinner party, hosted by J, see the first paragraph of this sermon.

J made my wedding cake. J was Larry-O's godmother, when eventually he came along. J took me to my first non-baby-encumbered movie after he was born. J and I saw one another with great regularity (several times a month, at least) the entire time S and Larry and I lived near Beantown.

Eventually S's career took us away from that home and we landed here, in Carousel City. J and I still had contact, but less as the years went by. We celebrated one another's weddings, births, and we commiserated through one another's divorces. J was at my ordination.

These days, J is in a new phase of her life, having relocated to the tiny island she so loves. These last months have seen us talking on the phone more than we had in years. It is such a gift to think that this friendship can still be a part of my life, that I can have that exquisite experience of talking to someone who knows me almost as well as family-- no, better, if I'm honest with myself. And J has started a blog. So now I feel our check-ins will be even more regular, our contact with one another's lives even greater.

So, if you want to read some lovely writing by a woman who is working very hard at keeping it real... scoot on over to New Islander. Say hi to J. Tell her Mags sent you.

Photo by J.

Blogger Meet-Up!

A brief quiz:

Guess who is even lovelier in real life than in her fetching blog-shot? And who is utterly hospitable, serving a rockin' cup of coffee to vagrant wanderers (as well as maple syrup donuts)?

Guess who is even funnier in real life than in her fabulous writing? And whose son is going to be a kickin' drum major one day?

Home, and happy, after a wonderful time with J., long-term soul-friend, and a wonderful meet-up with the above-mentioned bloggers. * Happy Sigh *

Island Memories

In 1987 I was pregnant with Larry-O, and married to Mr. Mags. We were just five years out of college, still living in the Boston area (newly moved to a small house located roughly in the middle of the commuter rail tracks in Wellesley), still very close to all our college friends. Among these were G., newly returned from two tours in the Peace Corps (Liberia, where he managed to weather both a revolution and malaria) and on his way to medical school, and J., easily my best friend. Beginning in our junior year in college we tried every year to vacation with college friends... a week at the cape, three times, then a summer where it didn't happen, then a week's rental in the house above, on Peaks Island.

I was 6 months pregnant, very big and happy about it all. Mr. Mags was an attorney with a Boston firm, and I was nearing the end of my attempt at a singing career. With us in the house, in addition to G. and J., were another J. and his fiancee K., not members of the college crowd, but part of a law school cohort that briefly cropped up. The house we rented was beautiful and spare, overlooked Casco Bay with a view of the Portland lights at night, and the sound of clanging buoy bells wafting in through the windows on the crisp island breeze.

Having grown up at the shore, I naturally wanted to swim, but discovered that even my polar bear nature had its limits: one brief dip was enough to last me the week. But we did ride bikes, and we cooked together, and we played games (Pictionary and Scrabble were great favorites).

I think my marriage was happy then. That's what I think. But I'm not sure. We were both overjoyed to be welcoming He-Who-Would-Be-Larry-O. But I did have a persistent emotional theme that told me I didn't quite fit in as a wife at the Firm (no Tom Cruise overtones intended). I had ongoing issues with my mother, who loomed large as an influence and as someone to defy, escape from, but never entirely successfully. My memory of that week is sweet. I did fall off a bike while out for a ride with G., who begged me to never ever tell Mr. Mags lest his life be forfeit (as if he personally had pushed me off). As far as falls from bikes go it was singularly unspectacular: I fell from a complete standstill, my pregnancy girth throwing off my balance. Embarrassing and hilarious.

This week I sat with G., now a doctor and married with three small boys, and J., a single mom like me, with children who are slightly younger (E., 13, and P., 10). J. had heard all about the divorce... I had kept in better touch with her than with G. He heard much of it this week for the first time.

It was odd to spin that particular yarn with these old friends, who know the Ex as well as they know me. It was odd to hear J. look at Petra, smile and shake her head and say, "She looks so much like her father. She is so much like her father." It was odd but healing, too, I think. I find that the story of my divorce is not so fraught with fresh pain as it once was. I can talk about Ex with some compassion and some realism, instead of as a victim... which, truly, I don't believe I am/ was. Though I would have chosen other ways for things to happen and work out, I am truly happy today, perhaps happier than I have ever been.

Where the seeds of our marriage's demise present in that little gray shingled house? Perhaps. Can I be grateful for the years we had together, as I am grateful for my life exactly as it is today? Yeah, I think I can.

Island walk 3

Island walk 2

Island walk 1

Island shots 6

Island shots 5... Voted best smile on the island

Island shots 4

Island shots 3

Island shots 2

Island shots 1

Vacation Part 1 Concluded; Part 2 Beginning

We stayed at my dad's house until Friday morning. The remainder of the week was quiet... good weather, but the three of us were so burnt by our one day at the beach we stayed inside reading. "Mom, we're indoor cats" Larry-O said to me. Indeed.

Each time I leave my dad I do so with a potent mixture of emotions. In many ways I find him difficult to infuriating. We disagree politically. We disagree on parenting. He harbors enormous anger and resentment about my divorce (directed at the ex Mr. Mags), which I don't find at all helpful. And while he dotes on Petra (he said about fifty times how beautiful she was) he can be quite hard on Larry, complaining about his eating habits, his clothing, etc. In fact, it seems to me that my father tries to work out some of his issues with my brother through his relationship with my son. Which, of course, isn't fair.

And my dad is angry. He can get very worked up over tiny slights, and he can be downright paranoid with regard to things like insurance companies and lawyers (of course, lots of folks would sympathize with both those sets of suspicions!). I mentioned to him that I think he like to fight, and he was very hurt and put out about it. But it's true. He was complaining about a dinner check, about the amount of money spent on sodas. I said, "Next time the kids and I can have water. No problem." His face fell. He said, "Don't give in so easily!"

But... he is my dad, he is my only dad, I love him and he loves me, and I know he loves my children (weirdness with Larry notwithstanding). And he is a few short weeks away from his 87th birthday. And, as I remind the kids, we just don't know how much time we have with him. His health is pretty good right now, but that sort of thing can turn on a dime.

So I hug him goodbye, with all this complicated relief and grief stirring around in me all at once.

Tomorrow Petra and I are off to Peaks Island, just off the coast of Portland, Maine. One of my oldest and dearest friends has moved there, and given an open invitation to stop by this summer. Another old and dear one will be there too... both people I've known since I was 17 or so. We'll just be there for four days. But we will take ferry from the mainland, and we'll hear the bells of the buoys clanging in the harbor, and we'll taste the seaspray on our lips. And I may... may... have a blogger meet-up to report upon when I get back!

Vacation Pix 3

Ocean sunset.