In the Line

Justin Thornburgh
Community Church of Wilmette
Proper 21A
Psalm 78: 1-4, 12-16
25 September, 2011

Audio:

Text:
In the Line

(Scene 1: In the Night)

The sun was setting behind the mountains. The shadows on the ground were growing as the light began to fade. The cloud in front of the child began to glow – like fire – as it had every night of her young life. She always went to the edge of the camp to watch the transformation. She would stand there in awe. Hands outstretched – palms out. She would closer her eyes and feel the wind that always accompanied the change blow through her hair. A smile would come to her face as she stood in the midst of the transformation. She could stand in that place or transformation forever. It was so peaceful.

Her bliss, though, was interrupted by her little brother running up to her – tugging on her sleeve, “Rachel, Rachel, the sun has set. Sabbath is over. Momma has food ready.” “I’ll be there in minute, Yishi.” Yishi ran back to the place their family has settled for the time being.There was a campfire going. The landscape was dotted with these orange beads. Families all around had begun to break the Sabbath prohibition of work as they began to prepare the quail that never seemed to run out. The sweet bread of morning had satiated Yishi for most of the day, but now – as the darkness was growing- and the smell of roasting quail began to fill the air, Yishi realized how hungry he was. Running up to his mother, he began to prance around her, “Eemaa, how much longer? I am starving.”

“Yishi, my boy, relax. It will be ready soon. Where is your sister?”

“At the cloud – again.”

“Go get her.”

“I did. But she didn’t want to come. She said she would be here in a minute.”

Just then, Rachel arrived at the campsite. “I am sorry, eemaa. There is just something about watching the could change that…well, I don’t know…I can’t move as it happens. It is like I hear a voice calling out to me to stay. Sh’ma Rachel. Listen to the story. I don’t know what it means. But I stand there waiting. Waiting to hear something.”

“Uhh…Rachel. Get your head out of the could and help eemaa. I am starving.”

Yishi’s 7 year old impatience snapped her out of her vision, and she gathered the plates from the cart that carried their belongings. Everything was so old. Eemaa said that when here eemaa and avi left Egypt – where ever that was – they had to do it in a hurry, and they just grabbed things that were solid and would not break. Rachel began to set places around the campfire. Avi, eemaa, Yishi, and herself. She laid out the blankest they sat on around the fire. Plates arranged in a semi-circle…all facing the fire. Her spot was on the end, opposite her father – but closest to the cloud. Often as the family ate, she would turn around and just stare at the cloud. Countless times she had asked her parents about it. She was 12 and it had been around as long as she had. The would never answer her satisfactorily, though. It was as if they had forgotten something.

She had finished setting places when her mother told her to set two more places. They were having guests at their camp tonight. Moshe and Zipporah were coming over. Rachel began to sweat. Moshe was the leader of her people, but she had never met him. There were thousands of people around, and she was just a little girl. “Eemaa, why is Moshe come to eat with us?”

“He wants to talk to you.”

Rachel began to panic. “What did I do?” Her mind was racing, but she couldn’t think of anything. Surely it couldn’t be about when she picked some flowers on the Sabbath. They were beginning to die, so she dug them out at the roots and put them in a bowl so she could take care of them. Did she really do something that bad? She didn’t think that that was work. “Momma, why does he want to talk to me?” She asked with a quiver in her voice.

“I don’t know. But he saw your avi this morning and said he would like to talk with you.”

Rachel didn’t know what to do. She set the two more places and then retreated to their tent. She sat down outside the tent. Leaning against one of the support posts. She stared at the could and as she did – tears came to her eyes. She talked to the cloud like she would do when she was feeling afraid or when she had something to say her parents would not understand. “Did I do something wrong? Why is Moshe coming to talk to me?” Then as clear as anything she heard it again, “Sh’ma Rachel. Give ear, Rachel. Listen.”

“To what? Why won’t you tell me?” There was nothing more. She sat in silence. Tears coming down her face. Staring at the cloud. It was as though time had stopped. She looked at the other families wondering if Moshe came and talked to their kids. Then hand on her shoulder and the familiar voice – the one she had heard many times speaking to the assembly, but this time there wasn’t power in the voice – volume, but compassion, “Rachel bat Elohim. Daughter of God.” She jumped. Startled she began to get up, but Moshe leaning on his walking staff made his way to the ground next to her.

“Staring at the could again, I see.”

“Ummm…yes rabbi.”

“I, too, often watch the cloud. Sometimes for hours, Aaron and Yeshua get concerned. They think I am neglecting my duties. They thing I am loosing my mind. Especially when I tell them it is talking to me.”

“It talks to you?”

“Oh yes, my child. It has spoken to me many times.”

“I hear it, too. It keeps telling me to listen. But then it doesn’t say anything else. It doesn’t tell me who to listen to. I don’t know. I think I may be loosing my mind.”

“Daughter, you are not loosing your mind. What you are hearing is the voice of Ha Shem. You are hearing the voice of the God who led us out of Egypt. Do you know that story?”

“Yes, we tell it every year at Pesach.”

“So you know how the LORD our God led us from the hand of Pharaoh.”

“Yes, but eemaa and avi say that it is just a story. They don’t remember a place called Egypt. They say that is a story we tell in order to keep us tied to our ancestors. They are old – in their 30’s – they say they have been wandering this desert as long as they have been alive.”

“I can tell you, Rachel, we were delivered. I was there. They have forgotten the story. Open your ears child, for Ha Shem, the LORD our God wants you to hear the stories of how our God is always with us. God has done great things for us. God split the sea in two so we could flee. God gives us quail and manna. God opens the rock to give us water. Sweet child, God is in front of us day and night. God is in the cloud. Open your ears to the stories. Open your heart to their truth. Sh’ma Rachel. Sh’ma.”

Tears again appeared on Rachel’s cheeks. This time though, the fear has transformed into joy. She looked at Moshe. Grabbed him and pulled her head to his chest. Looking up at him with tears in her eyes she said, “I hear.” He embraced her and held her. Rocking her gently – the cloud watching over them.

(Scene 2: In the Dark)

We are the inheritors of stories. We get them from our parents. From our culture. From friends, family, and of course t.v. and the internet. Stories have the power to transform and change us. They have the ability to bring new light to stagnant situations. Stories are what make us human. We are gifted with the ability to remember and to share. To communicate. To tell stories of how things are made or how things can hurt us. We hear stories and they become a part of us.

But sometimes, thought, the pages become dusty and we can’t quite see the story. Things get in the way of the stories.

I always am curious about the stories of places I walk or drive by. When I was working in the Bronzeville neighborhood last summer, I would ride my bike up Cottage Grove and see all of the small shops, barber shops, and boarded up windows. I wanted to hear the stories about all those places. Some once were places of vibrancy that carried on the story of this former jazz center of the city, but there were abandoned buildings that told another story. A story all to familiar in cities and suburbs around the county. Some of these boarded up windows belonged to shuttered businesses. Forced to close due to the economic condition. As these stores would close, people would move out of the neighborhood seeking new places to work. As they left – their apartments would remain empty until the landlord was forced to sell to a new developer – and they gut the affordable apartments and turn them into luxury condos. New residents would move in, bringing with them the stories they heard about how dangerous the south side of Chicago is – so they would take their business to the “safer” south loop. The new people coming in could not read the story of how Bronzeville was once one of the most important neighborhoods in the city. Instead they heard stories that scared them.

New stories are being written in which the new narrative lacks the promise and back story of the neighborhood. And the kids I worked with were caught up in this new story telling them they were not part of the future. That they would be stuck in their projects. That if they wanted to be part of the story it would be as another victim. The new story removed any hope. Like Rachel’s parents – wandering lost for years, the stories of the past history of Bronzeville just become a place of fairy tales.

Stories are not just forgotten in Bronzeville. No, we forget them, too. When we are caught in the distractions of keeping our kids busy, so they can keep up with the Jones’, or when we keep at work for 60 hours a week because we need to keep food on the table, or when we are just caught in a cycle of hopelessness and uncertainty. We forget our stories. Blinded by the all to real situations going on around. We are just trying to get by. We are more concerned with just getting out of the desert and into the promised land that we hear the stories, but we don’t listen. We don’t remember.

We forget the stories of how God is working with us. In us. Through us. We are lost in the dark. Forgetting that we are part of the story.

(Scene 3: In the Light)

But the people of Israel were not all lost in the desert. There were many, like Rachel, who remembered the stories. Who took them to heart. Learned them. Loved them. Shared them.

Through them, we hear of how God not only rescued the people from Egypt, but did provide food and water and a land of their own.

We hear stories about how a mother’s love for her daughter-in-law led her to a new life with a man who loved her – and how that mother became the great-grandmother of a king.

We stories of how the child of a rape victim would grow to become the wisest ruler the world has ever known.

Stories pass on the ongoing work of God. God’s presence in these stories is the tie that binds them together.

It is God’s story that tells us of a boy born in a barn. A boy that would tell God’s story. A story that changes the stories we have created. It is the story of a love that abounds beyond any of our understanding. It is the story of God’s son crucified – publicly executed by the state. It tells the story of how that crucified son had changed the stories of the disinherited. How he changed the story of the blind man. How he changed the story of the leper. How he changed the story of a hemorrhaging woman. How he changed the story by defeating the grave.

Sisters and brothers the story of the crucified son is not the end. It is a necessary point, for without it we would never know that because he was dead, Jesus must rise. The story of hopelessness has been changed. The dust was blown off the pages when God breathed across the pages of history that Sunday morning. God said that there is more to the story.

(Scene 4: In the Line)

God say, “Sh’ma, Community Church. You are part of my story. The story that I need to tell has you as a crucial character. You are in the line of the Children of Israel who were lead out of Egypt. You are children of Ruth. You are in the line of Solomon. You are my beloved children, Sh’ma. Listen. The story has changed and you are part of it.”

Sisters and brothers the story God is telling is bigger than any of our problems. The story is greater than our deepest hurt. We are part of the story – our hurts and pains. They are important parts, but God has a bigger role for us – individually and corporately. Community Church’s story is bigger than Wilmette. Today it is being told in LaCrosse, WI. You see, the robe I am wearing was given to me by your own Jan. It belonged to her father. She is not here today because she is listening to the story of God’s work at her dad’s former church in LaCrosse. The story of how you have been a part of her life is being shared this day. The story of God’s work through you is being shared. The story of how you care for you own is being shared. God has a page in the story of you.

God’s story is bigger that any of our problems. Like Rachel was guided by the cloud of Ha Shem, we are led by the cross. The cross that tells us – the story ain’t over. Sh’ma. Listen. Give ear, O God’s children. Incline your ears. Share the story of God’s great work. Share the story of God’s deeds. Share the story. But remember it isn’t over. Something greater is in store. For God’s great faithfulness has no ending. God’s great story is a work in progress and we are all important character. Sh’ma, Community Church. Sh’ma.

Rest in the bosom of God. Bear each others burdens. Share each others stories, and you will hear, O God’s children, how God is writing the story. You will hear how you fit in. And you will hear God’s word even when you seem lost in the desert. Sh’ma. Listen.

God is a Verb

Justin Thornburgh
Sermon: Proper 17A
Sat. Sept. 3, 2011
North Shore Baptist Church – Crossings Service

God is a Verb

The story for today’s lesson is one we all know. We learned it in our most primary Sunday School Class. The story of Moses and the Burning Bush. I remember Mrs. White sitting us all down on the carpet with the alphabet on it – pulling Scott and me out from the fort we built Sunday after Sunday out of those cardboard bricks – she would take out the flannel board and stick up there Moses looking for the sheep. The burning bush. I heard the story, but was more fascinated by how those pieces stuck on that board. THAT was the real miracle – there was no tape. They weren’t velcro. They felt like the flannel shirt I loved to wear. She would tell us how the bush didn’t burn and how Moses had to take off his sandals. Mrs. White would tell us that God’s name was “I AM.” Again, I would get stuck there. What kind of name was that? “I AM that I AM.” She would never explain it. I have always been struck by the name of the Living God., “I AM.”

***

I try to picture what was going on on the that day when Moses met “I AM.” I imagine it was another sweltering day in the desert of the Sinai Peninsula. A hot, dry day. The sun sitting high in the sky. Moses and the sheep of his father in law are huddled at the bottom a wadi – or valley – using the shade created by the wall of the valley to give them some respite from the mid-day heat. Moses leaning against the wall of the wadi – maybe sitting chewing on a piece of goat jerky. Counting the sheep. Partly to pass the time. Partly to make sure his dad in law’s sheep are all present and accounted for. 97,98,99, 100, 101,…where is 102? “How did I loose one? I was behind them the whole time. Alright sheepys…stay here. I need to go find BoPeep.”

He gets us. Knocks the sand off his robe. Places his keffiyeh back on his head to protect him from the baking sun. Grab his walking stick from its resting place – leaning on the wadi wall. He faces the east. The sun behind him causes his shadow to become a long silent version of himself pointing in the direction he is to head. He head east. Every hundred feet or so he stops. Closes his eyes and listens. Nothing. Moving forward he repeats the routine. Again and again. Finally, a mile away from where Jethro’s flock is resting, he stops again. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he closes his eyes and listens. He hears it. The bleating of the lamb. He listens again. The sound echoing in the valley makes it difficult to pin-point where the sound is coming from. Baaa-Baaaa. There is it is. Up that embankment. It is near the path they used to come down into the valley. He climbs the embankment, but sees nothing. Now on top of the valley – the dry wind blows sand and it burns his skin. He listens. Baa-Baaa. The sound is coming from the mountain ridge to his left.

Coming to the mountain Moses see there are crags and cliffs that are pretty treacherous. Baa-Baaa. The lamb on the mountain. They went by this place this morning. BoPeep must have wandered off when they made the turn into the wadi. Moses negotiates the crags and crevasses – gingerly. He isn’t a young man anymore like when he fled Egypt. It had been many years. Slipping on a rock he cuts his knee. Ripping a hole in the robe he was wearing. Getting back on his feet he sees the lamb. Caught in the branches of a small tree. He goes to it. The poor thing is dehydrated from the fight to remove itself from the branches. The shepherd reaches inside his outter robe and removes the water-skin and begins to put it to the little sheep’s mouth, but it refuses to drink. Precious water is spilling all over the ground – being swallowed by the dry rocks – evaporating into nothing. As he tries to calm the lamb it breaths its last. Having lost the struggle to keep it alive, Moses begins to try to remove it from the limbs of the tree – when out of the corner of his eye he sees something.

A bush is on fire, but it isn’t being consumed. Thinking he is beginning to be affected by the heat and the sun, Moses reaches for the water-skin – it is empty. Defeated, Moses returns to his haunches and works at the caught lamb again. Then, “Moses. Moses.” He turns to the bush. Still thinking he is seeing things, Moses steps into the shade and sits. Tears begin to well up in his eyes – How will Zipporah and the boys know where to find him, for he will surely die in this place. “Just don’t struggle like the lamb,” he mumbles to himself, “maybe I can hold off until evening and then try to make it to camp.” But this sun has just peaked over the cover he was sitting under. He begins to weep. He looks up with tears blurring his vision. He still sees the bush burning. “This can’t be a mirage. It would have changed by now.” Slowly, stiffly, he raises himself up. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he makes his way to the bush.

“Moses. Moses.”

“What is going on?” Thinks the shepherd.

“Moses.”

“Uhhh…Here I am.”

“Stop.”

Moses unsure if he is loosing his mind stops. Confused. After all, he is having a conversation with a bush that is on fire and not burning. “Take off your shoes, this is Holy Ground.” No loosing eye contact Moses removes his sandals. “Moses. I am the God of your fathers Abraham and Isaac and Jacob.” It have been years since the fugitive shepherd had heard those names. The names of his ancestors hit him like a lead weight. He collapsed to the ground. Weeping he stretched out his hands toward the bush – his face buried in the sand and rock covering the crevasse, “Oh my God.”

“Moses, I have heard the cries of my children in Egypt. I have seen how they are beaten an abused. I see their homes destroyed. Their lively hood being burned. I have seen their suffering. I know their sufferings, and I am come down to save them from the Egyptians. I am showing them a new land – full of milk and honey. I have heard their cries, and I am sending you to Pharaoh – I am calling you to bring them out of Egypt.”

Getting to his knees, Moses stares at the bush. “I am a fugitve. They will surely kill me. How would I even do it? I stutter. I am old. I have a family. And what makes you think Pharaoh would listen to me. Remember, I grew up with him and he hated me then?”

“Moses, I AM with you. And when you gain the freedom of my people, you will return here to worship me. That is how you will know that I am with you. You will come to this place and worship.”

Still not sure, “Ok, fine. But what will I tell your people? I fled them, too. Remember? They probably hate me. I could have done something when I was in Pharaoh’s court. I didn’t. They will ask me what your name is.”

“I AM WHO I AM – ahaya asher ahaya . Tell them I AM has sent you. Tell them Elohim Adoni has send you. The God of your ancestors: of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob has sent me to you. Ahaya – I AM is my name forever. It is my title for all generations.”

Moses and the LORD kept talking and when they were done, Moses – radiating the light of God turned to take the dead lamb and return to the rest of the flock to return them to the camp, but something was amiss. The lamb was not in the tree. Baaa-Baaaa. Moses turned toward the bush that was no longer burning. The lamb came walking from behind the bush. It came up to Moses, and it began to lead the way to the other sheep.

***
Moses was lost. The property of his father in law was dead. Though it was his duty to retrieve the lost sheep – he was leaving the others in danger. He was on the edge of dying. And it is this state of utter despair that God appeared to him. God made God’s self known to this man who was teetering on the edge. And Moses responded like most of us do when confronted by God. We try to bargain with God. We try to make sure God confronts us on our terms.

I know when I was discerning a call to ministry – I really tried to make sure it was on my terms. I would look at schools that I knew were too far away. I would looks at schools I knew were either too conservative or too liberal for me. I kept trying to tell God that, “Sure I hear your call, but I am going to do this on my terms.” See what happened? God said, “Ok. No you aren’t.” I looked at Lutheran school’s page, and found out that God was in control. I should not be at a Lutheran School, but God was working. God called me there because of my concern for the environment. But God had something else in mind and by drawing me to that school introduced me to the area of Urban Ministry to which I feel is what God wanted me to do all along. God is working all the time.

God is working and God is calling us to take steps outside of our comfort zones. Part of our vocation as followers of the Divine Name is to proclaim a world that the world tells us we shout not proclaim. We are called to move away from our came and into the troubled places. To the margins of society. That means going to the streets and witnessing, watching, observing what is going on and naming those things that are not in accordance with the Divine will of God.

We invite the homeless into our building Monday through Friday, but what would happen if they showed up at our service? Would we engage them and get to know them as beloved children of God? As children groaning under the oppression of a system that prefers they be invisible? Or would we acknowledge them and leave it at that? We are called to stand in the margins. To stand in the margins and in the face of the powers that have conspired to keep people oppressed. Will we stay at the bush in the comforting presence of the Divine, or will we go to Egypt? Will we go to Pharaoh and say, “Let God’s people go. Let them go to a warm bed. Let them eat a hot meal. Do not favor your friends who can pay to get you reelected over the needs of the broken on the street.

We are building a new service here. A service that has been called into being and namedGod by God. Will we stand her in awe of the unconsumed burning bush, or will we engage it? Hear what it has to say, and then, like Moses, go back to Egypt?

This story of Moses’ call is a profound one as we begin work on rebuilding this service. In the story we learn that God’s name is ahaya asher ahaya – I AM WHO I AM. The thing that we loose in the English translation of the divine name is the fact that it is a verb – not a noun like proper names in our language. The root of the name hyh means “to be, become, come to pass, exist, happen.” In revealing to Moses the divine name, God is telling Moses that God is constantly working in the world. God is telling Moses that God is a verb. An action. Never stopping. Since there is no past tense or future tense in Hebrew – God is and always is and always has been moving. God names the ancestors of the past. The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

The God of Miriam, Aaron, and Zipporah. The God of Deborah, Bathsheba, and Ruth. The God of Tamar, Jonathan, and Amos. The God of Mary, Joseph, and Elizabeth. The God who came in the person of Jesus and worked on our terms to show us what the Rule of God should be. The God who was lamb staked to a tree. The God who died, yet walked from behind the bush that Sunday morning and greeted a grieving Mary Magdaline. The God who is with us tonight. The God who is with us as we worship.

Friends, we try to name God on the best terms we know. We call God many names, we try to name God. We need to name God, and that is why this name is so amazing.
When we are called to start a new service – we call on God. When we go to the streets in protest of unjust laws – we call on God. When we sit at the bedside of a dying friend – we call on God. When we are beaten down by the weight of uncertainty – we call on God. When we see our leaders acting like children – we call on God. When everything we hold dear seems to be taken from us, like Job – we call on God. We call on God – I AM – who is with us right when we need God.

God is working. ahaya is not going anywhere. And we will know this because, we will worship God in this place. Like the Children of Israel who came out of Egypt and worshiped God on the mountain. We have heard our names called by the one on whom we call. God says, “Sarah, I AM with you. Randy, I AM working. Leo, I AM by your side…”

God says to us all I AM the one who has defeated all that will hold you back. I AM the one who defeated death. I AM the one who loosed the chains that keep you from being who I called you to be. I AM. Do not be afraid. I AM. Every minute – every second – every nanosecond of every day I AM.

So as we re-launch this service, and we think back on that flannel board stories of Mrs. White, and as we see how God has worked in our lives – let us go forth proclaiming the Amazing Grace that I AM is alway working – for our God is alway in action. We have the lamb who came from behind the bush to lead us.