Exodus 16: 2 – 31; 35 (preached 9/18/2011)
Kevin and I honeymooned in the mountains of Riudosa, NM in his Mamaw and Granddad’s cabin—where Kevin had vacationed each summer growing up. He shared years of memories and stories about being there with his grandparents, parents and his many cousins. We honeymooned there because it was free; because it was tradition—all of Mamaw and Granddad’s grandchildren had honeymooned there; and because it was cool in the summer. On our first full day there, Kevin suggests we take a walk from the cabin down into town. a short walk, he says. I think—short walk—10 minutes? So we set out late in the morning. 30 minutes later we arrive on the outskirts of town. I am hot and tired and hungry. But we didn’t bring food or water or money, so there is no relief. After a short rest, we head back—uphill this time—traveling more slowly. Halfway Kevin offers to go get the car while I wait here beside the river. It won’t take him long. I can sit and rest here while he gets the car. He wants me to stay here, alone? He wants me to stay here—on the road, the scene of most of the bear-sighting stories I have heard. I say to myself, What was I thinking when I married this guy? Have I made a mistake?
Have we made a mistake? This is the question on the lips of the Israelites today. In “Egypt . . . we sat around pots of meat and ate all the food we wanted, but, Moses, you have brought us out into this desert to starve to death." Why did we leave the life we knew? A life of slavery sounds better than the unknowns on this journey. Have we made a mistake? Actually, the Israelites aren’t just questioning—they’re complaining. They are grumbling against Moses, against his leadership, perhaps against God.
“Grumbling.” That was the word used by several people in our lectionary Bible study Tuesday night as a keyword for this scripture. Why did we leave the life we knew? Hungry, they remember in Egypt, they did have food to eat. Have we made a mistake? It is as if—symbolically—they are turning back toward Egypt—facing the life they knew—a life of slavery, a life of fear, . . . a life with which they had learned to cope. But God doesn’t want them to cope—God wants them to live! God doesn’t want them to be enslaved but to be free. God doesn’t want them to be full of fear, but to be full of hope. God doesn’t want them to drown in work—working day after day—but to enjoy rest.
God hears the people’s grumbling and responds. "I am going to rain bread from heaven for you, and each day you shall go out and gather enough for that day.” God hears and responds.
God responds with food. It is not what they expected—quail instead of beef; flaky, dewy, frosty stuff—manna instead of leavened bread. It’s not what they expected, but it is what they need. It is God’s gift to them—this bread from heaven. They do not have to work for it. They cannot earn it. It is God’s gift to them. This bread of trust and obedience is different from the Egyptian bread of affliction and coercion. It is not what they expected. But it is what they needed.
God hears their grumbling and responds. God responds—right there in the wilderness. They are far from Egypt, on the other side of the Red Sea, not in a land with fertile fields skirting a large, life-giving river. Instead they are in a barren land—a land—bereft of beauty and of life—or is it? As they let go of the past, as they turn their eyes, their faces, their bodies away from Egypt, away from the known—As they turn to the unknown, they see the glory of God. God’s presence fills the wilderness, and this wilderness is no longer devoid of beauty or life. It is a place of hope. In this wilderness, they will be surrounded by God’s presence; they will be the nurtured by God’s provision. In this wilderness, they will be defined by God’s covenant; they will be formed by God’s love. In this wilderness, they will grow.
Like the Israelites, we cry out in desperation; we grumble when life seems barren; we complain when we are dissatisfied. As God responded to the Israelites, so God responds to us. God hears our cries, our grumbling, our complaints. And God responds. God responds with manna—giving us what we need—not we want, not what we expect, but what we need.
Ava has entered a wilderness time. Two months ago this 20-something seminary student noticed a problem with her body. Between the end of her pastoral internship
and the beginning of her senior seminary year, she scheduled surgery, and waited for the results. Recently she wrote, “Is it strange or does it make perfect sense that during the hardest times in life it is most easy to find things for which to be grateful?”
Gratitude in the midst of desperation. Ava faces the wilderness, and she sees God’s glory. For God is giving her what she needs—faith that God is with her, assurance that God will not abandon her.
What about us? Traveling together on this new journey. Like the Israelites we will experience obvious miracles. And we will celebrate passing through our own parted Red Seas. But we will also encounter wilderness on this journey. We will encounter the unknown—where unexpected and hidden miracles await.
As God responded to the Israelites, so God will respond to us. God will give us manna—not what we want, not what we expect, but what we need. God will provide for us. It may not be what we want—growth reflected in numbers of people and numbers of dollars. It may not be what we want, but it will be what we need—growth—reflected by a hunger for the Word of God, a hunger for Biblical and theological questioning and seeking together. It may not be what we want, but it will be what we need—growth—reflected by a hunger for God’s righteousness—that people who are hungry be fed, that people who are sick be tended, that people who are lonely be visited. It may not be what we want, but it will be what we need—growth—reflected by a hunger to participate spiritually, physically, and financially in mission. It may not be what we want—but it will be what we need—growth reflected in how we live our lives.
The wilderness—a place of the unknown—a place of discomfort. The wilderness—a place to grow in faith—trusting the God whose presence lights up the darkness, trusting the God whose provision feeds our souls.
Back in Ruidosa I thought Kevin wants me to stay here and get eaten by a bear? What was I thinking when I married him? Have I made a mistake? No, over the long haul, I recognize my relationship with Kevin as manna provided by God.
God was in it for the long haul with the Israelites. For 40 years—for as long as they were in the wilderness, he provided them with manna. God is in it for the long haul with us. On our journey when we begin to grumble—and we will grumble—because we’re human, when we long for the familiar, when we begin to turn back towards our Egypt, God—who knows what we need—may guide us into the wilderness—leading us into the promising opportunities of the unknown. In that wilderness, God will provide. God will gift us with manna—the bread from heaven; manna—the bread that doesn’t look like bread, that doesn’t taste like bread; manna—the bread of trust, the bread of freedom; manna—the bread that satisfies. On our journey, will we accept God’s manna letting it nourish us? Will we accept God’s manna allowing it to empower us?
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