A Sermon alongside the Community Church
November 22, 2020
Exodus 15:20-21
1.
O freedom, O freedom, O freedom over me.
And before I’d be a slave, I’d be buried in my grave,
And go home to my Lord and be free! (You know the song!)
O freedom, O freedom, O freedom over me.
And before I’d be a slave, I’d be buried in my grave,
And go home to my Lord and be free!
When I imagine Miriam singing in the sea,
when I imagine Miriam swinging with her sisters in the sea,
I imagine them singing that old freedom song: it’s a movement song.
I imagine Miriam singing the kind of song
that defies danger and provokes new possibilities:
No more killin’, no more killin’, no more killin’ over me,
And before I’ll be a slave, I’ll be buried in my grave,
And go home to my Lord and be free!
2.
If you’re reading the Hebrew Bible from the beginning—if you’re starting at Genesis, then onto Exodus and so forth—Miriam is the first Hebrew (man or woman) designated as a prophet of God, a prophet to her people. She’s the Bible’s very first prophet. And here’s how that goes. God’s people are racing toward freedom, fleeing Pharaoh’s army and generations of despair; and they come to the edge of the salty, muddy, marshy sea. The Red Sea. And the Red Sea stops them in their tracks. The journey comes to a screeching halt.
The project hangs in the balance.
And Miriam takes a tambourine, that’s the instrument of prophecy here, and she calls to the women around her. Maybe they’ve all been traveling together. Or maybe she goes around gathering them, coaxing them, urging them to join her. But she calls to the women, to all the others. And now they’re all splashing in the shallows together, with tambourines and dancing. “Sing now to God!” she calls to them, Miriam to her sisters. “Sing now to God!” And they’re dancing together, and they’re making their way together, and they leading their weary people into the sea, into the waters, and into God’s promised (but by no means certain) future. Miriam makes no promises. Miriam doesn’t sugarcoat the moment or the possibilities ahead. But she does give thanks. And she does sing freely. And she gets the whole circle of sisters, the whole congregation of women, singing along.
No more killin’, no more killin’, no more killin’ over me,
And before I’ll be a slave, I’ll be buried in my grave,
And go home to my Lord and be free!
Now this is an insight the rabbis celebrate in their ancient commentaries. Check this out. Only when they’ve led the way, only when Miriam has called her sisters out into the sea, only when they’re dancing and praising God out there—only then do the waters part, only then do the seas rise up, only then does the Spirit of God part the waves so that the people of God can pass on through. “Sing now to God!” Miriam and her sisters. Miriam pushing and provoking and rousing all the others. With an old tambourine.
Now let’s be real. You’ve got to feel this kind of song to sing this kind of song. You’ve got to need this kind of song to know this kind of song. They were there, these women, in Egypt. They’ve lived through better seasons of trickle-down economics and irrational xenophobia. They’ve seen their sons shot down in the streets, their brothers choked to death by agents of empire.
So this right here—Miriam’s song—is something like Aretha Franklin singing “People Get Ready” in 1968 or a women’s trio on the bloody streets of Ferguson or Minneapolis. You’ve got to need this song to know it. You’ve got to feel it to sing it.
There’s water everywhere, right? Walls of water, walls of briny water on their left, and on their right. And Pharaoh’s armies are closing fast, wailing in pursuit of fleeing Hebrew slaves. It’s a wild scene, right? Liberation is at hand, but not yet certain. Pharaoh’s raging. He’s not used to losing elections, or, should I say, slaves.
And Miriam sings a freedom song. Not just a sweet little lullaby, mind you; she sings a freedom song for her sisters. “Sing to God: sing NOW to God! For God has triumphed gloriously!” “Sing to God: sing NOW to God! Ain’t nothing gonna stop us now!” Now friends: that’s a Womxn’s March! Maybe the very first Womxn’s March!
And all the while, Miriam’s popping on her tambourine. With freedom, liberation, justice: their very future at stake. She’s popping on her tambourine. Rhythm and resistance, and wonder and joy. In the midst of all that chaos. With Pharaoh’s army raging in pursuit. The prophet sings. Miriam sings. And her sisters dance. And God’s people throw a party in the Red Sea.
3.
I hope you see how Miriam speaks to you and me, and to the church in our time. How she urges us and coaxes us to celebrate God’s love, God’s persistence, God’s grace—even in the midst of chaos. How she gathers us and challenges us to praise God and thank God—even in our season of uncertainty. God is your partner and your soul’s companion. Even now, especially now, during an unnerving pandemic. God is your partner and your soul’s companion. Whether you’ve have had the virus, or you will next month. God is your partner and your soul’s companion. Even now, especially now, as we heal our country.
God is the light that rises over the Atlantic and the brisk November morning that clears our minds after a hard work week. God is the promise and courage we see in the eyes of a young activist. And God is the simple breath you draw, in gratitude and wonder, as you lay your head to sleep. We are called—as Christians, as a church—we are called to praise as a lifestyle, to praise as a pathway, to gratitude as a daily sacrament in a scary time. That’s you and me. That’s us. Gratitude as a daily sacrament in a scary time.
You see, Miriam doesn’t wait to see how the story plays out. Miriam doesn’t wait to see that God’s purposes are worked out in the Red Sea or the Promised Land. She doesn’t have to. She bravely, boldly and brashly steps into the surf. She bravely, boldly and brashly leads her sisters into the waters of the sea. She takes only a tambourine. She sings a song of praise. THANKSGIVING is the song that opens our eyes to the wonders of God in creation. THANKSGIVING is the song that opens our hearts to the promise of God in our many journeys to freedom. THANKSGIVING is the song that organizes a people into a movement—and overwhelms our enemies with grace, and navigates a pathway to healing and justice and peace.
THANKSGIVING is Miriam’s song. And our way of life.
In those ancient rabbinic commentaries, the rabbis note that Moses sings a song of his own that day. And you remember Moses. He’s Miriam’s brother, of course, and her partner in the liberation of those Hebrew slaves. And Moses sings his own song that day. At the Red Sea.
But Moses’ song—the rabbis note—is set in a future tense: “I WILL sing to God, when God has finished this great work.” Something like that. “I will sing to God,” Moses says, in effect, “because this is looking pretty good for us.”
But Miriam sings a more urgent, determined and (to be honest) defiant song. At least, this is how the rabbis see it. “Sing to God,” she urges her sisters. Kind of a resistance movement within the resistance movement. “Sing to God RIGHT NOW—because God is doing a great thing in us RIGHT NOW—here in the midst of the chaos, here in the midst of so many unknowns, here in the midst of the stormy Red Sea.” Don’t wait, Miriam says: “Sing now!” Because it’s on. Because it’s happening. Because we’re not alone.
See the difference? Moses’ song hedges on joy—just a little bit. “Let’s sing to God when this is all over.” “Let’s sing to God when the waters roll back and the end is in sight.” But Miriam’s song, Miraim’s song doesn’t hedge at all, not even a little bit. “Sing NOW to God!” she thunders, tambourine in hand, sisters all around her, drums and energy and resistance in motion. “Sing NOW to God—because God is doing a great thing in us RIGHT NOW!” The rabbis like to say that Miriam—at just this moment—is “drawing down” the power of God; that all this dancing is attracting the liberating light of God, into the midst of the people. A circle dance! This feminist theology 101, if we’re honest about it. How can God resist a circle dance!
And Miriam becomes a prophet—again, this is what the rabbis say—she becomes a prophet at just this very moment. Because she doesn’t wait for the chaos to subside. Because she doesn’t wait for the journey’s tidy conclusion. Because she doesn’t wait for anybody to say it’s OK. Right there, in the midst of all that water, in the wild uncertainty of rushing armies, and Pharaoh’s refusing to concede, and the promise of liberation, Miriam sings her freedom song. Surrounded by her sisters. Partnering with God. Bearing God’s dream in her body, in her mind and heart. Singing a song of liberation and resistance. Gratitude as a daily sacrament in a scary time.
5.
I want you to imagine that the church, our church, is called to gratitude as a sacrament. I want you to imagine that the church, our church, is called to bear God’s dream in our bodies, in our minds and in our hearts. We are Miriam’s sisters, and we are Miriam’s brothers. We are all Miriam’s children. And in the midst of so many uncertainties, we are moved to thanksgiving. In the midst of so many unknowns, we are moved to praise the God from whom all blessings flow. In the midst of every struggle for justice, we are moved to sing a song of gratitude for the struggle itself, for the journey we share, for the relationships that sustain us on the long way home. That’s who we are. We are all Miriam’s children. That’s what it means to be the church.
It’s interesting, I think, that the meaning of the Hebrew word Miriam (which becomes Mary, as you know, down the road a bit): the meaning of Miriam is “a sea of bitterness.” Miriam is the one who knows how desperate God’s people are, who feels that desperation in her bones, in her heart. She surveys that “sea of bitterness,” but doesn’t not stop there to wallow in it. Because the same Hebrew word carries another meaning: this sense of rebellion, the rebellious spirit born in hardship. Isn’t that something? One name, one word: Miriam. And in that one name: we acknowledge the pain, the suffering, even the bitterness we face, we encounter along the way.
But we also—and this is us, friends; this is the church—we also discover within ourselves the rebellious spirit that sings in the chaos, the rebellious spirit that dances in the muddy water, the rebellious spirit that risks an altogether new future for all God’s many peoples.
And that’s what you do: When you invite friends to pray for you as you face another round of immunotherapy, or another round of chemo. I see this in you. I see this in your families, in your friendships, in your lives every day. You hold one another, gently and tenderly, in the spaces that have no clear beginning and no clear ending. Like Miriam, you call the rest of us out to pray, you coax us into the chaos to praise God, you insist on gratitude and friendship in the midst of uncertainty. In the swirling seas of danger, we love one another, we lean on God’s tender mercies, and we come to embrace the wholeness and grace that infuse our souls with eternal life.
And that’s what you do: When you badger ICE agents with phone calls and organize the dismantle systems of oppression and cruelty. Like Miriam, you make common cause with sisters, and with brothers too, and you bang on tambourines, and you drive your cars around prisons and jails, and you dedicate your hearts to justice and hospitality and the beloved community of all nations and races. In the swirling seas of danger, we collaborate as friends, we strategize as conspirators, we come to embrace the wholeness and grace that infuse our souls with eternal life.
And that’s what you do: When you embrace the gospel of love and undo generations of bigotry and homophobia. You’ve done this, my friends, over 15 years now, as an Open & Affirming Congregation, as a decidedly inclusive and boldly Christian community of disciples, insisting on the spirit’s blessing, the spirit’s shining, the spirit’s calling in every life, and especially in the hearts of our lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender friends. Like Miriam, you continue chart a course through every kind of prejudice that divides us, through every kind of fear that diminishes us. And like Miriam, you praise God’s goodness, you celebrate God’s vision, you embrace God’s project of sisterhood and brotherhood and siblinghood for all of us, for the whole human family. You chose to be an Open & Affirming Congregation. You’ve worked hard to become an Open & Affirming Congregation. And you recognize that it’s a journey that never ends. In the swirling seas of danger, we lean into friendship and partnership, we look for rainbows in the storm clouds, and we come to embrace the wholeness and grace that infuse our souls with eternal life.
So yes, my friends, especially this year, gratitude is a sacrament. A daily practice of resistance and confidence. In gratitude we find the friends we’ve been looking for all along. In gratitude we lean into the work, the witness, the ministry that brings our hearts all the joy, all the meaning we really need. In gratitude we find Miriam and her sisters, dancing in the chaos, praising God for the wonder of life on the run, and singing their souls into the beloved community that bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
O freedom, O freedom, O freedom over me.
And before I’d be a slave, I’d be buried in my grave,
And go home to my Lord and be free!
A blessed and happy Thanksgiving to you all!
