Self-Empty (Philippians 2:1 - 13)

There are many theories of Scriptural inspiration . . . all the way from strict inerrancy—the position that the Bible is accurate and totally free of error, that "Scripture in the original manuscripts does not affirm anything that is contrary to fact,” to the neo-orthodox view of Karl Barth and Emil Brunner that the Bible is "the word of God" but not "the words of God" to the view of some modern biblical scholars that the Bible is a record of human interaction with the divine.

My own view lies somewhere in between the neo-orthodox and extreme modernist views, but that it is inspired I am more certain as I read the Bible; Paul’s writings are exhibit A in my mind.   He’s a Jew who may or may not have fallen off a donkey, who began planting Christian communities all over the Middle East.  And this guy who never ran a congregation before, who was a legal scholar, a Pharisee for St. Pete’s sake, is never short of incredibly acute when it comes to giving advice on how to live as communities of Christ.  Along the way, he managed to articulate a theology—probably wholly unintentionally—that today is the bed-rock of orthodox Christianity and, well: if that’s not inspiration, I don’t know what is.  Paul’s inspiration seems to have taken the form of being given divine knowledge, perhaps directly by the Holy Spirit, perhaps by his unique schooling and upbringing—and probably by both—that allowed him to speak with great authority and value to communities struggling to be, well  . . . Christian.

One of the central problems he seems to have confronted in the churches he planted is a lack of unity.  His communities were pulled first one way, and then another, by various teachers espousing various schools of thought, and this created division, which Paul firmly believed was injurious to the mission of God.  This problem, as you might imagine, was about basic doctrine in those days: there was no orthodoxy, and it is an abiding irony that Paul’s very attempts to deal with the divisions over theology became the basis for orthodox theology.

The problems of Paul’s congregations with disunity are very evident over in 1^st Corinthians—which we’re studying in Wednesday evening Bible study—where he says “I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you be in agreement and that there be no divisions among you . . .”  In Philippians, the focus is also on unity, and just as he does in Corinthians, he grounds his appeal in their common identity as Christians: “If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy,” he says, and he uses big, fat Christian buzzwords: encouragement, which can also be translated as exhortation, consolation, love, sharing—koinonia, otherwise known as fellowship—compassion, sympathy—all fruits of the Spirit—if there is any of this in you all, then “be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind.”

And he clearly means to imply that if they have these Christ-like qualities, they will be unified, but I think we can draw another lesson from it as well: if Paul inevitably grounds unity in a common calling in Christ—“Consider your own call,” Paul tells the Corinthians—is it possible that it is a result of that call?  Further, does it follow that the kind of unity Paul is talking about is possible only in communities that are truly grounded in Christ?

One thing is certain: congregations had as much trouble being unified back then as they do today.  And for Paul, it isn’t an option: he uses the imperative voice in Greek, the command voice: be of the same mind he says, he is commanding them to be unified.  In his thinking, there is no choice.

He offers a diagnosis as to why they might not be unified, and for him, it all  comes down to a lack of humility.  And I can sure feature that . . . we seminary trained pastors can  get the idea that we have the Word, implanted in us, directly from God, and this can help create a certain . . . ego . . .

Then too, every time I read these verses, I think of St. Benedict, and his Rule for living in community, written five centuries after Christ.  It’s the most successful guide for living in Christian community ever written: the majority of Christian monastics today live in some fashion according to the Rule.  And in the Rule, it’s clear that Benedict has read Paul, because he’s convinced that humility is essential to living in Christian community.  He devotes an entire chapter to it, Chapter 7—the perfect number, right?—and in it he uses the metaphor of a 12-step ladder to humility—get the other significant number?—and one rung on the ladder, one step to humility—the seventh—is that one should “not only claim to be beneath everyone else and worse than them, but also be convinced of this deep in his heart.”  Sounds a lot like Paul’s advice to “regard others as better than yourselves,” doesn’t it?

Before we overlay modern ideas of self-esteem and shame and etc. upon Paul and Benedict, remember that for them, this is very practical advice, for a very matter-of-fact purpose: the living out of our vocation as children of God through Jesus Christ.  It is not a psychological recommendation, but a practical one: like love, regarding everyone as better than ourselves is action embodied.  If one doesn’t insist on one’s own way of doing things being the way of the entire group, or on one’s own theology being the theology of the entire group, if one group doesn’t hold the entire community hostage to its way of thinking, or hold its own programs above those of other groups, that constitutes regarding everyone as better than one’s self.

But you might be thinking: wait a minute.  Hold the phone: isn’t that a call to regard the other as equal to oneself, to regard her or his desires as equal to one’s own, or another group’s place within the communities as equal to one’s own?  Why is it couched in terms of superiority?  Why is it understood as regarding the other as better than one’s self?  Well, there are two levels of answer to that question.  First Paul, and Benedict after him, understood that only by subsuming one’s own ego—and thus the collective ego of one’s particular faction or group—can true unity be achieved.  And why is that?  Because only in that way can one avoid the concept of “fairness” that ensnares so many within communities and indeed, any relationship system—marriages, partnerships, legislatures, you name it.  It’s the notion of “fairness”—and the coincident idea that to be fair means that nobody should get more than is fair, which is more than one’s own self is getting—that is at the root of conflict.  And conflict destroys communities and, in Christian communities, their mission and witness to Christ.

The standard definition of conflict—either between two people or between two factions—includes the idea that the there is (a) a limited resource and (b) that you are in competition with the “other side” for that resource. This  is central to the notion of conflict: the belief that the other side is in competition for a resource that is perceived to be limited. It’s so basic that a situation is only considered a conflict if it is present.  Let me repeat that: a relationship between two individuals or two groups of individuals is not considered a conflict unless the parties perceive that they are in competition for a limited resource.

So now do we get why Paul—and Benedict—considered the root of humility, and thus community unity, to be that we regard others as better than our own self?  Because only if one subsumes one’s own ego to that of the other does it negate this notion of what is “fair” and its consequential result of conflict.  It causes one to think of the needs of others in the community or in the relationship rather than one’s own self.

And I confess that I am sometimes not very good at this, I can think that everyone should view theology the same way that I do, and that the notion of what is “fair”—in other words, the notion that the other in a relationship can’t be allowed to get more than me, or do less than me (in that case, the limited resource is free time)—this notion has led to conflict more times than I am comfortable with.

And I also must note that the notion that one must submit one’s own ego to that of another is particularly toxic when it’s applied unevenly, to one group over another.  That has been the case for millennia when the notion is that women are the ones in a community—whether it’s the community called a family or the body of Christ—that must surrender their egos to those of the men.  In fact, this might be in part how the idea that considering other’s needs before one’s own got such a bad name.   If it is expected of one person or group of persons and not everyone, it leads to oppression, domination, and hierarchy.

Well.  I said that there were two levels of understanding, two lines of reasoning that led Paul to say “regard others as better than yourselves” and “let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others.”  It’s not just that it makes for smooth-running, unified communities—though it does—it’s not just for practical reasons—though it is.  It is because Christ is our example, our model, and he demonstrated it, he led the way.  And to articulate that, Paul wrote some of the most iconic prose in the New Testament, so important that it is one of the earliest creeds of the church, earlier than the Apostle’s Creed, certainly earlier than the Nicene Creed . . . we think the Christ hymn in verses five through eleven was one of the first liturgies of the church, and it can’t be a coincidence that it’s about humility.

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, Paul says, “who, though he was in the form of God” though he had the power and strength and very form of the Creator of the Universe did not regard equality with that Creator as something to be exploited, but emptied himself—of what?  Of his power?  Of his wisdom?  Of his god-hood? –and took human form, the form of a slave, the most lowly thing that Paul’s first century audience could think of, and being in that form, he humbled himself—as if he were not humble enough already, being in the form of a slave—and became obedient to the point of death, even a death so degrading and demeaning as death on a cross.

And we’ve come full-circle, back to our discussion of inspiration, and where Paul got his overwhelming expertise in managing communities of Christ: he got this expertise at least in part by following the example of the Son of God, by using Christ as a model.  We often say being a Christian is being Christ-like, and Paul showed the way.

For millennia, Christian devotional traditions have advocated meditating on various aspects of Christ’s life, and especially the crucifixion . . . we speak of following the way of  the cross, during Holy Week many churches have the stations of the cross, all designed to focus our attention on Jesus’ death, where he valued our needs, our lives above his own.  And you’ll hear a lot of preachers sat that this is so we’ll be grateful for all he went through, but it’s for a very different reason as well.  We’re to contemplate the cross, think on it, meditate on it, pray on it, so that the second half of Benedict’s rule comes true, that we not only profess other peoples’ needs and wants superior to our own, but we come to believe it, deep down in our hearts, and we can no more create conflict in the church than we can hold our breaths forever.

So let’s stand and say what we believe by singing the Christ hymn, reciting it from the bulletin, contemplating the example of Christ, so that we might—someday, at least—empty our own selves of rancor and jealousy and assumed superiority over those with whom we are in community:

 

"We believe that Christ Jesus, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness.  And being found in human form, humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death-- even death on a cross.  Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Calculated Offense (Matthew 20:1-16)

This is a kingdom-of-heaven-is-like story, and as in the one about the mustard seed, it depends upon surprise and astonishment for its impact. Remember the mustard seed story? “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed,” Jesus says, “. . . it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.”  And anyone who’d seen a mustard plant – which I’m sure most of his audience had – would’ve said “Hold the phone – a mustard seed doesn’t produce a big, luxuriant tree . . . what is this Jesus fellow trying to tell us?” And it’s very strangeness invites closer examination, like “how can a kingdom be like this weird seed, this seed that defies all conventional wisdom?”

Our story is like that, but it works better for us today, because it needs little translation. The mustard-seed story only works if you know that a mustard seed will never grow into a tree, not in this life, anyway, but the story of the surprising landowner hits us right where it counts: our whole economy, our whole system of value is based on fair pay for an honest-day’s work. If I work an hour for somebody, I expect to get paid an hour’s wage – no less, but certainly no more.  But here’s a landowner – and in ancient Palestine, landowner meant wealth – here’s a landowner who pays everyone the same, regardless of how long they work. And Jesus says the kingdom of heaven is like that?

Well, some folks might say that it’s all well and good in the kingdom of heaven, but we’re right here on earth, we have to live in the real world until the kingdom actually gets here. But that dog won’t hunt – it’s clear in the gospels that the kingdom of heaven – in Matthew, it’s what Jesus calls the kingdom of God – is in the present as well as in the future. It’s a process, not a place, and it’s already here in a sense. And the way Matthew uses it, like the other Gospel writers, it defines what it means to be a community of Christians. And so shuffling these things off into some heavenly future, in some distant place where God lives, and where we go when we die, doesn’t cut it – the kingdom of heaven is here, and we’re left back where we started, wondering what in heaven’s name Jesus means. Are we supposed to pay everybody the same no matter what they make? How are we ever going to get any work done? Pretty soon, everybody will want to work just one hour for a day’s pay. Then where would we be?

Well, it’s pretty clear in outline: early one morning, a landowner goes out and hires some workers and, after agreeing to pay them the standard daily wage, sends them off to his vineyard. Three hours later, he goes out into the market again, hires some more men and sends them off to work. And the men were idle, standing around, they weren’t working because they hadn’t been hired.

In Decatur, Georgia over by the projects, just across the tracks from Columbia seminary, men gather in the mornings . . . they wait in the chill and on into the heating of the day, on into the humidity, waiting for the pickups to come carry them to jobs, so their families can eat. You’d see the pickup trucks pull up, and men would pile into the beds, but others would be left standing and waiting, and some wouldn’t get work at all that day . . . like vineyard work, construction is seasonal and temporary, and in the winter, when it’s too wet to do anything, there are many left after the final pickup . . . like the men in the marketplace, they are classic day workers, gathering where employers can find them, sometimes finding work, and sometimes . . . not. And again, six hours into the day, the construction boss drives out into the market and again he finds idle workers standing there, and he hires them and they go onto the job site, and this happens three more times, the owner goes out and hires workers to pick his grapes, and the last time is at five o’clock in the afternoon, late in the day, but he hires them and sends them into the yard. And when it gets dark, he calls in the workers, and tells his foreman to pay them, starting with the last ones hired, and the first ones stand there watching the last ones getting paid, and they see that they’re getting the standard daily wage . . . and they think they’re going to receive more, but they get the exact same wage as the ones hired last, even though they’d worked eleven hours more in the hot, searing sun. And note that the first-hired workers expect more than promised, they tried to control the amount they received, not the landowner.

And so here we have it . . . the kingdom of heaven is like some jerk who isn’t fair to his workers, who doesn’t treat them all alike, who patently favors those who’d been idle all day, even though it wasn’t their fault. He tells them he’ll pay them “what’s right” – the Greek can also mean “what’s just” – and is that what’s just in the kingdom of heaven? Is that what’s right? And when they gripe about it, when they grumble to the landowner, he tells them basically to stick it – even though he is polite about it, even though he does call them friends . . . He can do whatever he wants with what’s his, and anyway, did he cheat ‘em?  Did he take ‘em for a ride, pull the wool over their eyes, take ‘em to the cleaners?  Did he not give them exactly what they’d agreed upon, one denarius, a day’s wage? But the first-hired grumbled, saying that the construction boss had made the last equal to the first . . . and this seemed to gripe them to no end . . .

And key to entire passage is the wording of their complaint: “you have made them equal to us” say the first-hired, and clearly to them – and is it the same way with us? – clearly to those chosen first, the last were not equal. What is right to the landowner, what is just, is that all are held equal. The parable is about the landowner, not the workers, even though they’re the ones doing the complaining, even though we – many of whom are workers ourselves – tend to identify with them. It’s about the action of the landowner, the owner of the vineyard, and what does he do? He makes them all equal. He gives them all the same amount no matter what they have done, no matter how long they have worked. The kingdom of God is like a landowner who gives the workers equality, who gives them a life-giving wage no matter what they have done, or more to the point, no matter what they have not done. And the last will be first, and the first will be last.

I was associated with a church one time, and there was this new member named Susan, a young, eager member, who hadn’t been a Presbyterian all that long, and didn’t know the ropes all that well. She was also just a little rough around the edges, not quite as well-spoken as the others, but after a year she just couldn’t hold it in any longer, and she made it known that she would love to serve the Lord on the session, but she was told – not unkindly, but with great clarity – that she hadn’t been a Presbyterian long enough. In that church, Susan always felt she was something of an outsider, and wondered how long it had to be before she could be considered equal to the other members, and she suspected that never was the proper word.

But there was this other church, and a guy named Lee came who used to be a Baptist, and who really wasn’t very much like the other members – he was conservative, for one thing, and they were liberal – and he didn’t know much about Presbyterians, but when he’d been there a year, he was elected elder, just like that. And if you want to know the truth, I was just a little bit ticked off, ‘cause I’d been there a year longer, and I hadn’t been elected elder yet, but when Lee came to me just flabbergasted, and feeling that he wasn’t worthy, I had to tell him about our church, how it was the most egalitarian I’d ever seen, how egos were submerged and power was shared, even among all the professors and deans and university vice-presidents who went there, everyone had a place.

Which church do you think is a better image of God’s kingdom on earth? In one, the first were . . . well, first . . . and the last didn’t have an equal place in the congregation’s life. The other congregation was just the opposite – oh, there were power issues all right – the director of Christian education comes to mind – but people felt included, needed, wanted . . . they felt their opinions made a difference, and they actually counted in that piece of the kingdom. And that church continued to thrive, it continued to be a place that nurtures the faith of its members . . . in one year alone, they sent seven members to Columbia seminary’s inquirers weekend. Of that seven, one is in seminary and three have been there and graduated Two of those are Presbyterian pastors, and one of them is me.

There are no perfect church communities, but some give more room for faith to grow. If you’re always worried about what your brother and sister are doing, or your place versus theirs in some hierarchy of control, there’s not time for much of anything else. There are no perfect Christian communities, just as there are no perfect secular ones, but ours are supposed to be different – and our passage points to one of the primary ways. The secular world rewards people according to what they do, but in the kingdom of God, they are rewarded irregardless of that.

We have a word for that, don’t we?  It’s called grace, and it’s free, no matter who you are or what you have done. Grace is like a landowner who does what he wants with what is his, he’s not bound by others’ expectations, or others' notions of what’s fair. Like the mustard seed that becomes a tree, it overturns worldly expectations. A little tiny seed, worth the least in the kingdom of humans, growing lush and beautiful. Day-workers, dependent on seasonal labor to feed their children, paid a living wage no matter how long they work. The kingdom of heaven is like that, and infinitely more. The last shall be first and the first shall be last.

I think the biggest hindrance to evangelism is that many church communities don’t look or act very different from anyone else. What motivation is it for people to join a church if the same stuff goes on inside as out? What incentive when what members are taught inside has little bearing on how they act when they leave the building, or indeed, when they’re inside? The biggest incentive we have, the greatest gift to a hurting, insecure, pain-filled world, is what’s in this parable: in the kingdom of God, all are equal, no matter what they have done, or what they have left undone. God’s bounty, God’s grace is given not according to the world’s standards, but to God’s. We don’t have to scrabble for it, we don’t have to compete for it, we don’t have to count beans for it. We don’t have to clock in at eight and out at five for it, we don’t have to get-ahead-on-the-ladder-of-success for it. It’s not given in proportion to how many committees we chair, or how many times we read the bible, or how long we’ve been warming one of the pews. That’s the Good News in a nutshell, what we have to share with our neighbors: we don’t have to follow the world’s rules, only God’s. And the world’s rules bring pain and heartache and, ultimately, death. God’s rules, on the other hand, bring life.  Amen.

Still, the Egyptians (Exodus 14:19-31)

 

That long ago day is as clear in my mind as yesterday, even though it was thousands of years ago, and should be lost in the mists of time . . . we’d gotten caught up in redemption fever, salvation’s rush.  Moses had bested the Egyptian magicians, laying ten plagues upon them, and the last plague, the darkest one, many of us didn’t even like to think about.  A spirit trickled out over the streets, and crept through the air, and when it was gone, Egyptian children were dead, and that pushed Pharaoh over the edge, and so he told us to go, to take everyone, every man, woman and child, and our livestock too, and we plundered the Egyptians as we left.  There were six hundred thousand of us, not counting the children.  And the Lord led us in a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire that lit up the night, and we could see the Lord in front of us whatever time it was, we could see God leading us onward, and we knew that God was with us.

We walked by the light of the sun by day and the great pillar of fire by night, and we were exhausted.  But we went on, content in trusting God, content to go where Moses led us, even though the dust clogged our throats and the sweat gummed our eyes, and our legs felt leaden and tired.  We were content because we knew that our God was a mighty God; we could actually see God’s pillar, leading us forward by day and by night.

Then one day the voice of the Lord spoke out of the cloud to Moses, and we could all hear it, booming over the multitude, but it sounded like only the rushing of wind to us, or the slamming of mighty rocks to the ground, but Moses understood, because when it was over, he immediately pulled us around, and we camped near Baal-zephon and Pi-hahiroth and Migdol, with our backs to the sea.

And it was there that the Egyptians came upon us, chariot upon chariot, horse upon horse, with Pharaoh’s banner leading the way, and when we saw them coming we cried out to Moses “Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us here to die in the wilderness?  Did we not say to you ‘leave us here to serve the Egyptians, for it is better to be enslaved than to die a horrible death?’”  And I myself was bitter, I was hungry and exhausted, my wife and children were hungry and exhausted, and there we were, with our backs to the sea, caught between death by drowning and death by the slash of a sword.

But God spoke to Moses again in that great, incomprehensible voice, and the pillar of the Lord moved so that it was between Egyptians and us, and it glowed fiery red, lighting the night, keeping the Pharaoh at bay.  And Moses lifted his arms, swept them over the sea, and Behold!  A great wind came up out of the east and it blew across the waters for hours and hours, into the night, and I tell you that I was as afraid of that wind as I was of the Egyptians, but I was more afraid of that pillar of fire . . . even though it meant safety, even though it meant that God was with us, you couldn’t pay me to go near it.  And if I was this afraid, I could only imagine how the Egyptians felt.  I mean, the Lord was our god, there for our comfort and aid . . . the Pharaoh’s men had no such assurances, no such comfort.  They were on the bad side of a divine pillar of fire, and they just had to know that it wasn’t going to end well.

And over the years, I’ve wondered about that, about what would make men persist in riding to their doom.  Were they mindless machines, did their officers—with Pharaoh at the top—pull their strings?  Were they like modern armies, so well trained that they obeyed orders automatically, without question, no matter what?  Or were they convinced by the powers that be, by the Pharaoh and all the politicians under him, that this was essential to the survival if their way if life, essential to the survival of their wives and children?  Because make no mistake: the Egyptian charioteers had families, too, just like mine, just like those of my fellow Israelites.  They had wives who loved them, children who depended on them, and yet here they were, willing to give their all so that we might not escape.

Maybe it was fear, maybe their commanders instilled in them so much fear that they didn’t dare turn tail, they didn’t dare retreat.  If that were so, it must have been some kind if fear, to override their terror of being burned to a crisp by an angry god.

 And the wind from the East blew all night, but we didn’t stay where we were very long.  Moses urged us forward toward the sea, toward the waters where we surely would drown, and a terror arose in my belly, an ancient fear of the sea, with all it’s roiling chaos, all it's dark, unplumbed depths.  But as we got to the shore, rank upon rank, we saw that the east wind, the wind from God, had separated the waters from the waters—just like at creation!—and we entered the sea on dry land, between two towering walls of water.  There was a rushing sound, a dire roaring all around, made by the water and the wind that kept it at bay, and we all looked in wonder, because the sea floor was not squishy a bit, it was completely dry, as if there had never been water there.

And by the light of the pillar of fire—which had moved to the fore once again—we could see that the Egyptian army had followed us into the sea, or into where the sea used to be, and once again I feared being speared or skewered or sliced, but all of a sudden, there came a ferocious clatter, and looking back, I could see that the wheels of the chariots were bogged down, where just minutes ago it was completely dry.  Horses screamed in terror, chariots overturned, and those in the rear smashed into those in front.  No doubt there were some who died right then and there, in the terrible crush of man and horse and metal.

And all through the night, we rushed over the dry land, and heard the sounds of confusion behind us, all the while illuminated by the red glare of the pillar of fire.  And then, as morning dawned and the last of us scrambled up the banks of the shore, once again the voice of God was heard, booming over the multitude, over the cacophony of wind and water, and once again, we could not understand it, and once again it was clear that Moses did, for he turned has face to the sea and raised his hands.

And at first, nothing happened.  Nothing we could see, anyway.  The roar of water and wind continued a unabated as the first of the chariots, freed from morass and clattering ruin, were almost at our shore, when suddenly, the sound changed in timbre, it turned into a banshee shriek, and we could see the waters, crashing back together, coming from the direction we had just come, getting closer and closer.  As the Egyptians saw it, their panic increased, and they scrambled frantically forward, trying to escape the water, but they couldn’t.

And as I watched, unable to turn away, I saw the last of them disappear under the waves and the rift in the sea was healed.  The elemental roaring that had accompanied us all the way across was cut off, the waves ceased, and the waters became as calm and unruffled as the pool of Siloam.  There was no sign of Pharaoh’s army, not at first, anyway, then bits and pieces of gear started to appear, bobbing in the surf, and soon enough, the bodies of Egyptian soldiers littered the shore.

And we were grateful to God, for God had saved us, and brought us out of slavery, and in recognition of this, we lived in the fear of the Lord, at least for a time.  And on the shoreline that day, God’s people celebrated, singing a song of praise that was led by Moses, and then the women took up tambourines and danced, singing “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; horse and rider he has thrown into the sea.”

Still, the Egyptian dead littered the shore.

I do not know why or how I have lived so I long.  I didn’t know at first that I was:  there was no voice from heaven saying “you, my son, will live forever,” no hint that I would last even longer than Methuselah, it just happened.  Gradually, I noticed that more and more of my friends were dying, then my wife and children—a parent shouldn’t have to watch his children die—and as the centuries passed, I just . . . persisted.  And I thought a lot about that day on the Sea of Reeds.  Was it really necessary that innocent people died so that we might go free?  People with families like me, children who wouldn’t see their fathers, wives who wouldn’t see their husbands?  Couldn’t God have gotten them lost, or built a big wall or something, like that one over in China?

I don’t know, and I don’t think anyone else does, either.  I know that when faced with questions like that, many lose their faith . . . a lot of my fellow Jews did, after the Holocaust.  But maybe I’m stubborn, or just not too bright, because I hunker down in my faith, in my persistence in trusting God.

But though I don’t know why God does what God does, what I do know is that we never should have sung a victory song about it.  How could we rejoice when the Egyptians lay dead, right in front of us, on the banks of the sea?  It reminds me of that New Orleans hurricane—Katrina—when bodies once again littered the shore, and not a few people pronounced it God’s judgement upon the evil of the city, even though the dead were primarily from the poorest parts of town.  I even heard one politician say that God had finally cleaned up the housing projects in New Orleans.  Not all that different from the Israelite victory song.

Still, I am grateful to The Lord for saving my people on that day.  I cannot think we deserved it any more than our captors, I know we didn’t do anything to deserve God’s grace and favor, and I am eternally grateful for that.  God saved us, liberated us, from our bondage to evil, and there was nothing to indicate that we were special, apart from God pronouncing us God’s people.  And I wonder: will God ever do that again?  Amen.