Sunday, September 22, 2024
Exodus 16 (4th Sunday in Creationtide)
1.
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| Cody Miller, "Manna" |
Think about adjectives you’d whisper watching a September sunset over the Great Bay, or a mighty grey whale breaching on the Atlantic, or a bull moose crossing a two-lane country road, or a butterfly breaking free of its cocoon in your own backyard. God calls all that God makes “delightful,” and God calls it “incredible,” and God calls it “fat with wonder” and “gorgeous” and “soul-stirring” and “enough.” “Enough!” Always, enough!
That’s “tov.” All of that. And really, to bring it home this morning, that’s Creationtide. What this whole season’s about. To believe in a God who creates, to believe in a Creator who invites humanity to live well and justly upon the earth—to believe isn’t to ascribe to any particular theory of how it all went down, or how long it takes to create a continent or a mountain range or a species of frogs in the rainforest. To believe in a God who creates is to delight with God in all God is doing, and to revel with God in the mysteries and surprises of it all, and to organize our communities in ways that allow all creation and all our neighbors to share in the nourishment and wonder and goodness God intends.
So—when God rests on the seventh day of creation—you remember this part in Genesis: when God rests in the midst of all that’s “tov” and all that’s “incredible” and “delightful” and “fat with wonder,” when God rests—we are invited to do the same. Every seventh day. Every Sabbath day. And the point of our resting is that we take time, and we create rituals, and we call together friends, and we set our hearts on all that’s incredible and delightful and fat-with-wonder. Because it’s all God’s. Every leaf of every tree. Every seed in every field. Every beach on every shore. Every ant hill and every zucchini vine and every dribbling stream. It’s all God’s and it’s all “tov.” We rest simply and always to remember. It’s all God’s and it’s all “tov.”
(And parenthetically, not to rest every seventh day is to risk forgetting. Not to practice “Sabbath rest” is to risk forgetting all this “tov-ness,” and then adjusting to a version of the world that is reduced to stock prices, market shares, economic anxiety and the betting line on this afternoon’s football game. In so many ways, the Sabbath sits at the heart of Jewish and Christian spirituality and ethics.)
2.
And this morning’s story, then, expands on Sabbath spirituality to offer “instructions” in receiving the gifts of creation, and living humbly, faithfully, justly in the midst of earth’s wonders and bounty; “instructions” in receiving the gifts of creation, and depending gladly on the land. Not as a possession to hoard. Not as a resource to exploit. Not even as a homeland to defend. But as a gift, and as a blessing, and as a sacrament to be shared. “I will test the people,” says God, making this as clear as clear can be. “I will test the people, whether they will follow my instructions or not.” So yes, we’re again in the realm of metaphor; but this metaphor matters. A lot.
This is Torah, of course, the heart of Jewish tradition and teaching, and the wisdom (by the way) suffusing Jesus’ own ministry. There is both gift and gospel in this tradition, and instruction as well. We are tested. If that first creation story in Genesis sets the stage for Sabbath spirituality, this wilderness story (this manna metaphor) in Exodus puts a finer point on Sabbath practice and community care and even economic discipline. Sabbath isn’t just a sweet way of organizing our work week; it’s an invitation to moderation, equity and a radically generous sharing of resources, harvests and food.
So remember the story, the context of the Hebrews’ journey out of Egypt, out of slavery, and into the wilderness and the future promised by God. They have—as a people—fled from the oppressive Egyptian economy in which they were enslaved and impoverished and compelled to build huge warehouses for the Pharaoh’s wealth, accumulated assets and greed. They have cried out of their suffering in Egypt and their many cries have been heard by God; their impoverishment has been felt by God. And in God’s mercy, by God’s mercy, Moses and Miriam have led the Hebrews out of this misery, and through the Red Sea, and into a wilderness of opportunity, promise and new possibilities.
And still, embracing that promise means unlearning Egyptian habits. Seizing new opportunities and possibilities means discovering God’s alternative to Pharaoh’s economy of accumulation and oppression. And that’s the hard part. Not only for the Hebrews, it turns out. But for us all.
So the manna from heaven in this morning’s story is a kind of test to see if the Hebrews are ready to follow God’s instructions; a kind of test to see if they’re ready to embrace an alternative, to see if they’re prepared to practice the goodness of God (or the “tov”-ness of God) in their life together, in a new economy of grace and liberation. It’s not a given. It turns out that it’s not a given. There are those who pine for Egypt, for their familiar place in a world with no Sabbaths at all. Have they so internalized the Pharaoh’s culture of consumerism and consumption that they will turn now and go back? Or are they open at last to the radically generous God whose radically bountiful earth is always able to nourish the radically faithful community?
3.
Three things, then, about the alternative practice God offers to us in this text. Because the offer is still out there; but choices have to be made.
First, every household is told to gather just enough bread—that fine, flaky substance called ‘manna’—for their needs. And “those who gather much have nothing over, and those who gather little have no shortage; each household gathering as much as they needed…” Think about it. Sabbath practice insists on creation’s generous provision for every kind of household, all manner of abilities and tents and traditions; and in the gathering of manna, in the gathering of that fine, flaky substance, all find what they need to live fully and abundantly and fairly upon the land.
Don’t miss the edge here. This practice is itself a critique of Pharaoh’s appetite for accumulation, Pharaoh’s economy of excess for some and deprivation for many; and (by the way) it contrasts dramatically with 21st century capitalism’s cruel tolerance for limitless wealth and grinding poverty. Right? The Hebrews are challenged, instructed in Torah, to receive creation’s gifts, and gather creation’s gifts, as a matter of theological partnership and Godly devotion. “And those who gather much have nothing over, and those who gather little have no shortage…”
Second, this particular bread (or ‘manna’) should not be “stored up.” Torah understands—and this tradition has always maintained—that dominant civilizations exert centripetal force, drawing labor, resources and wealth into greater and greater concentrations of power. Amos, Isaiah, Micah, Jeremiah. The prophets are constantly reminding us. And it’s no accident that the Hebrews in Egypt were conscripted to build great “store houses”—into which Pharaoh’s plunder and the tribute of subject peoples was gathered, collected, protected at all costs. Interesting, by the way, how this too prefigures modern capitalism, whose mantra, according to Marx at least, was “Accumulate, accumulate, accumulate! This is the Law and the Prophets!” But this morning, in our story, the Hebrews are challenged to embrace a very different way, an earth-centered way, a gift-based way, and directed then to keep wealth circulating through strategies of distribution and communion, practices of moderation and wellness, not concentrating that wealth through strategies of accumulation and defense. This is in your Bible, friends. Maybe even the heart and soul of the Hebrew tradition.
The third essential instruction in this morning’s Torah portion introduces what we might call a Sabbath discipline. A Sabbath discipline. “Six days you shall gather,” says Moses to the people, but on the seventh, which is a Sabbath, there will be none.” In other words, you shall go out on the sixth day and find twice as much as you gather on all the other days. So that you can rest like God on the seventh, and remember the incredible gift of creation, the delightful grace of God, the fat-with-wonder provisions of earth and rain and sun and seasons. You shall rest on the seventh day, on the Sabbath, and remember that all life, all that we need, all that gives meaning and protection comes from the hand and heart of God. The biblical scholar Richard Lowery says that “Sabbath observance requires a leap of faith, a firm confidence that the world will continue to operate benevolently for a day without human labor, and that God is willing and able to provide enough for the good life.” For the “tov” life!
And this is telling, I think. This primal lesson—this Sabbath lesson—was so fundamental to the Hebrews that they were instructed (again, these instructions!), they were instructed to keep a jarful of manna in front of the Covenant, in front of the ark, “before” the holiest of holy things in their common life. In a sense, what this means is essential to biblical faith, and gospel practice, and the ethics of Jewish and Christian life. Remembering the Sabbath—remembering the Sabbath every week—means remembering these two principles of God’s economy: first, the goal of “enough” for everyone, blessing for everyone, goodness and life for everyone; and second, the prohibition against accumulation and oppression. It’s not just about taking “a day off,” friends; it’s about receiving and rejoicing and committing to God’s economy of grace. Which is always enough. Which is always incredible and delightful. Which is always “tov.”
4.
So I have to imagine that Jesus—steeped in Jewish story as he was, immersed in Torah texts as he was—I have to imagine that Jesus was thinking about this very story, and these very instructions, as he fed the hungry in the wilderness, and then as he broke bread with his friends in the last hours of his life. His gospel is good news—because Jesus redescribes a world we too often assume is simply cruel and always competitive. His gospel is good news—because Jesus casts a vision of abundance and fertility and human partnership in creation. Trust the economy of grace, he might have said. Take what you need, but no more, he might have said. Be sure the neighbor next door has enough to live well, he might have said. And then, Jesus made it happen. The bread went around. And the fish as much as anyone needed. And the wine too. And the olives off the trees. And it was all good. It was all “tov,” “tov,” “tov”!
So imagine, friends, this Creationtide…what this might mean for us, for our life together, for our ministries in the world. Idealistic, perhaps. But daring, faithful and hopeful, most certainly. Holy Communion becomes an ethic, a discipline, a way of life. When the bread is broken, when God’s blessing is invoked gladly, our beloved community shatters the sense of inevitability around despair, inequality and greed. So much more is promised. So much more is possible. When the cup is filled, when Jesus invites our sacrifice of love and justice and nonviolence, the church busts the future wide open and offers a glimpse of a world where “tov” means enough, a glimpse of a world where “tov” means abundance, a glimpse of a world where “tov” means the point of it all is sharing a meal…and sharing your home…and sharing the neighborhood…and sharing the big, blue, beautiful world. Which is home to us all.
And that glimpse, that promise, that practice is ours today. On this Sabbath day. At God’s table of abundance. With Jesus and his band of wandering, wondering believers in the wilderness. It doesn’t have to be a pipe dream. It doesn’t have to be foolish. For as the poet June Jordan and Sweet Honey in the Rock are so fond of saying: Maybe we are the ones we’ve been waiting for. Maybe we are the ones we’ve been waiting for.
Amen and Ashe!
So the manna from heaven in this morning’s story is a kind of test to see if the Hebrews are ready to follow God’s instructions; a kind of test to see if they’re ready to embrace an alternative, to see if they’re prepared to practice the goodness of God (or the “tov”-ness of God) in their life together, in a new economy of grace and liberation. It’s not a given. It turns out that it’s not a given. There are those who pine for Egypt, for their familiar place in a world with no Sabbaths at all. Have they so internalized the Pharaoh’s culture of consumerism and consumption that they will turn now and go back? Or are they open at last to the radically generous God whose radically bountiful earth is always able to nourish the radically faithful community?
3.
Three things, then, about the alternative practice God offers to us in this text. Because the offer is still out there; but choices have to be made.
 |
| Paul Oman, "Manna from Heaven" |
Don’t miss the edge here. This practice is itself a critique of Pharaoh’s appetite for accumulation, Pharaoh’s economy of excess for some and deprivation for many; and (by the way) it contrasts dramatically with 21st century capitalism’s cruel tolerance for limitless wealth and grinding poverty. Right? The Hebrews are challenged, instructed in Torah, to receive creation’s gifts, and gather creation’s gifts, as a matter of theological partnership and Godly devotion. “And those who gather much have nothing over, and those who gather little have no shortage…”
Second, this particular bread (or ‘manna’) should not be “stored up.” Torah understands—and this tradition has always maintained—that dominant civilizations exert centripetal force, drawing labor, resources and wealth into greater and greater concentrations of power. Amos, Isaiah, Micah, Jeremiah. The prophets are constantly reminding us. And it’s no accident that the Hebrews in Egypt were conscripted to build great “store houses”—into which Pharaoh’s plunder and the tribute of subject peoples was gathered, collected, protected at all costs. Interesting, by the way, how this too prefigures modern capitalism, whose mantra, according to Marx at least, was “Accumulate, accumulate, accumulate! This is the Law and the Prophets!” But this morning, in our story, the Hebrews are challenged to embrace a very different way, an earth-centered way, a gift-based way, and directed then to keep wealth circulating through strategies of distribution and communion, practices of moderation and wellness, not concentrating that wealth through strategies of accumulation and defense. This is in your Bible, friends. Maybe even the heart and soul of the Hebrew tradition.
The third essential instruction in this morning’s Torah portion introduces what we might call a Sabbath discipline. A Sabbath discipline. “Six days you shall gather,” says Moses to the people, but on the seventh, which is a Sabbath, there will be none.” In other words, you shall go out on the sixth day and find twice as much as you gather on all the other days. So that you can rest like God on the seventh, and remember the incredible gift of creation, the delightful grace of God, the fat-with-wonder provisions of earth and rain and sun and seasons. You shall rest on the seventh day, on the Sabbath, and remember that all life, all that we need, all that gives meaning and protection comes from the hand and heart of God. The biblical scholar Richard Lowery says that “Sabbath observance requires a leap of faith, a firm confidence that the world will continue to operate benevolently for a day without human labor, and that God is willing and able to provide enough for the good life.” For the “tov” life!
And this is telling, I think. This primal lesson—this Sabbath lesson—was so fundamental to the Hebrews that they were instructed (again, these instructions!), they were instructed to keep a jarful of manna in front of the Covenant, in front of the ark, “before” the holiest of holy things in their common life. In a sense, what this means is essential to biblical faith, and gospel practice, and the ethics of Jewish and Christian life. Remembering the Sabbath—remembering the Sabbath every week—means remembering these two principles of God’s economy: first, the goal of “enough” for everyone, blessing for everyone, goodness and life for everyone; and second, the prohibition against accumulation and oppression. It’s not just about taking “a day off,” friends; it’s about receiving and rejoicing and committing to God’s economy of grace. Which is always enough. Which is always incredible and delightful. Which is always “tov.”
4.
So I have to imagine that Jesus—steeped in Jewish story as he was, immersed in Torah texts as he was—I have to imagine that Jesus was thinking about this very story, and these very instructions, as he fed the hungry in the wilderness, and then as he broke bread with his friends in the last hours of his life. His gospel is good news—because Jesus redescribes a world we too often assume is simply cruel and always competitive. His gospel is good news—because Jesus casts a vision of abundance and fertility and human partnership in creation. Trust the economy of grace, he might have said. Take what you need, but no more, he might have said. Be sure the neighbor next door has enough to live well, he might have said. And then, Jesus made it happen. The bread went around. And the fish as much as anyone needed. And the wine too. And the olives off the trees. And it was all good. It was all “tov,” “tov,” “tov”!
So imagine, friends, this Creationtide…what this might mean for us, for our life together, for our ministries in the world. Idealistic, perhaps. But daring, faithful and hopeful, most certainly. Holy Communion becomes an ethic, a discipline, a way of life. When the bread is broken, when God’s blessing is invoked gladly, our beloved community shatters the sense of inevitability around despair, inequality and greed. So much more is promised. So much more is possible. When the cup is filled, when Jesus invites our sacrifice of love and justice and nonviolence, the church busts the future wide open and offers a glimpse of a world where “tov” means enough, a glimpse of a world where “tov” means abundance, a glimpse of a world where “tov” means the point of it all is sharing a meal…and sharing your home…and sharing the neighborhood…and sharing the big, blue, beautiful world. Which is home to us all.
And that glimpse, that promise, that practice is ours today. On this Sabbath day. At God’s table of abundance. With Jesus and his band of wandering, wondering believers in the wilderness. It doesn’t have to be a pipe dream. It doesn’t have to be foolish. For as the poet June Jordan and Sweet Honey in the Rock are so fond of saying: Maybe we are the ones we’ve been waiting for. Maybe we are the ones we’ve been waiting for.
Amen and Ashe!
With special thanks to the scriptural and prophetic writing of Ched Myers, in The Biblical Vision of Sabbath Economics (2001).
