Great Big “But’s”

Originally preached on July 9, 2023 at Dickey Memorial Presbyterian Church.

Scripture

This sermon draws from the broader narrative regarding the plagues of Egypt, found in Exodus 5-8.

Sermon

Picture it: twenty minutes ago, I was downstairs in the undercroft, having my cup of coffee, and enjoying a little bit of time before our service started. Mm. Peace. Contentment. Calm.

Then Andrew walks in (and don’t worry, I asked if I could share this). For those of you on Zoom who haven’t met Andrew, he is a beloved child of God and faithful youth.

And from my calm, peaceful, content stupor, a question rings out. Andrew, what did you say? “You should grow your hair out.”

For the record, yes, and for the record, it was a memorable moment in ministry. All joking aside, I’m glad this is a place of belonging and friendship. I’m glad that on the best days, this community leaves no one behind, helps others when they fall down, and tries to roll with the punches.

We’ve heard a story about these things in today’s Scripture: of belonging and friendship, of leaving no one behind, and with rolling with the punches.

Let’s start with some of the oddities in what we’ve heard.

“Pharaoh hardens his heart.” This is a little bit of a refrain. As we listen, it returns after each plague. After water turns to blood, Pharaoh’s heart is hardened. After frogs cover Egypt, Pharaoh hardens his heart. After flies, a hardened heart. After dead livestock, a hardened heart.

It’s a compelling refrain for those who heard the Scriptures read aloud.

But something interesting happens, a subtle change. When boils afflict all that is living, we hear a different refrain: “The Lord hardened the heart of Pharoah.” After thunder and hail, Pharaoh’s heart hardened. After locusts, the Lord hardens Pharaoh’s heart. After darkness, the Lord hardens Pharaoh’s heart.

What’s up with that?

Everyone here today is invited to play around with that refrain. To ask questions of it, interrogate it, think about it in new and insightful ways. But I’ll offer one idea, one way of framing this in light of God’s word to us today.

After the first plagues, Pharaoh becomes stiff-necked, and rather than living with a softened heart, he chooses to do otherwise. It is his own choice, his own intent to destroy creation and others with him. This vileness, this depravity, isn’t anything divine, anything God-inspired. Nothing of the sort. It is a man whose own impulses are enacted on others against their will.

But on the sixth plague, after Pharaoh has repeatedly, persistently, stubbornly refused to let the Hebrew people go, he no longer hardens his heart. It is hardened without his doing, without his choice.

Shift your attention to Pharaoh in this moment. His own character, his demand for power and control, is suddenly controlling him, too. He can no longer choose; the planet has spiraled out of control, beyond fixing.

That’s a scary place to be.

There is an antidote for those of us who might feel powerless, like the world has spun out of control. To live with a softened heart. To be open to the Spirit’s movement in us and around us, to sit with the uncertainty and fear and panic that seems to be taking over. It’s not to double down. It’s not to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps. It’s to listen. To turn the other cheek. To gaze upon God’s presence in our midst, especially when it is challenging, uncomfortable, upending.

So many of us rely on DMPC for more than spiritual nourishment. We come here for so many reasons, for big reasons and small reasons. I imagine for some of us here today, the thought of losing DMPC is terrifying, because we worry about those things beyond spirituality. We worry about connection and isolation, of meeting basic needs or being lost.

The temptation is to assume that things have spiraled so far out of control that the rest is history. Plagues have happened, plagues are coming, and it’s time to resign to it.

But we lament Pharaoh’s actions for more than what ultimately results from them. We lament his heart, his rigidity, his brittle stubbornness. Let’s not make the same mistake.

In this vulnerable time, God invites us to open into that vulnerability. It’s counterintuitive, and will probably feel crappy. But right now, we can’t control the future. We can, however, praise be to God, find a way through this that doesn’t destroy ourselves. Turn towards the hurt, the anguish, and allow the Spirit in. Allow each other in. There’s a hymn that we sing sometimes called, “Spirit, Open My Heart.” It’s a prayer. “Spirit, open my heart to the join and pain of living.” That’s a softened heart, open to God’s eternal, balming, healing light.

There’s something else that we hear in the Scripture. And this is something that I think is at the heart of God’s word to us today.

Let me read it again. “‘The Lord, the God of the Hebrews, sent me to you to say, ‘Let my people go, so that they may serve me in the wilderness.’”

Just to be really honest, I read this and thought “this is a really bad deal for the Hebrew people.” God doesn’t say, “Let my people go, because I want to take them to sandy beaches of the Mediterranean.” He says, “Let my people go, so that they may serve me in the wilderness.”

I think the Hebrew people probably felt conflicted about it. Throughout the next season for them, they grumble pretty often. They usually say, “we should have stayed in Egypt.” And as much as they get a bad rap, in a lot of ways, they’re damned if they do, and damned if they don’t. If they leave Egypt, they’re in the wilderness. If they stay in Egypt, they’re subservient and oppressed.

Life is full of these moments. “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t” moments. This might be family dynamics, or work drama. I’ve heard a few people describe retirement as this kind of moment.

I think this church has seen a lot of the “damned if you do, damned if you don’t moments.” And don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t take away from any of the joy and goodness that is already here. But to be the church means we’ll encounter lots of “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” moments.

What I want everyone in this room to hear, more than this hard reality, is one word. There’s a great big “but” here.

We may be on the edge of the wilderness, BUT…

We may be frightened and terrified, BUT…

It feels like God is doing this, or that God allowed this to happen, BUT…

Hear this, even more than the “damned if you do, damned if you don’t”… God never, ever, ever drives us out into the wilderness to die. And we have a whole book filled to the brim with stories about the wilderness. Our Bibles are full of stories where people encounter the goodness, holiness, presence of God in real and special ways.

Look at one of the most well-heard stories. Jesus, at the beginning of his ministry, before he embarks on this life of miracles, and healing, and prophecy, is driven out to the wilderness. The Gospel accounts each have their own bent, and audience, and textual oddities. But three of the four Gospels—Matthew, Mark, and Luke—record this wilderness story with Jesus.

And in this story, we hear that Jesus is driven to the wilderness by the Spirit. For forty days, Jesus pilgrimages through the wilderness. And in this place, it is there that we see the character and nature of God incarnate. When evil comes knocking at God’s door, trying to tempt Jesus, evil goes away empty handed. In the wilderness, we see the steadfast love of God, the strength of Jesus’ mission, and the beginning of a world that will be forever changed.

Jesus was driven into the wilderness and encountered evil… BUT it was there that the kingdom of God was starting to be born.

And we hear elsewhere about John the Baptizer. John, the cousin of Jesus, is a man who lives in the wilderness. He doesn’t just pass through, but makes his home in the company of creation and beyond civilization. John fashions clothing for himself out of camel hair. He eats wild locusts and honey. He wades in the Jordan river, a dirty river cutting through the wilderness.

But John the Baptizer does not find a world of pain and suffering in the wilderness. Though there was certainly hardship, he instead makes it a home. It is in the wilderness that John communes with prophecy and God’s Spirit, becoming attuned to God’s great work in the world. He discerns that Jesus is the Christ, the one who is making all things new. John’s wilderness is a place of abundance and hope, of light that knows no bounds.

So if we’re standing on the edge of the wilderness today, it’s not as simple as “damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” Today isn’t a simple day.

And as much as we’re all curious about what God is up to at DMPC, in Dickeyville, or for all of us, I don’t think we can really know for certain what’s in store.

So let’s stand and face the wilderness with a softened heart, openness to its uncertainty, and look ahead. What can we do? How can we set up tent, rest our wearied feet, and find those pillars of cloud and fire that will guide us?

And just as important, how do we manage to have a little fun at the same time? Throw a little dance party in the wilderness, and have some smores?

Every group of campers needs a few good stories to pass the time. It’s the good moments, the bad moments, the weird and perplexing moments. This is where we get to retell our history, to reinterpret and discover who God has been in our past. This is about baptisms and youth groups, queer Bible studies and ministers who were nurtured. And make no mistake: campfire stories aren’t just for kicks. We tell stories in certain ways, and the way we tell stories matter. It’s time to tell campfire stories in ways that liberate us and give us strength for the journey ahead.

We need to tell stories about failures and grace. We need to tell stories about times we didn’t do things right, but God was steadfast anyways. It’s time we tell stories that give life.

In the wilderness, there might be some troubles. And here’s another reason we’ve got to do this together: suffering is not inherently traumatic. But suffering in isolation is.

We have to draw the circle close, to be with each other in our vulnerable, plague-filled moments. Not a single person on Zoom or in this sanctuary will be left behind by God. Not a single person on Zoom or in this sanctuary will be forgotten by God. We must not either.

So as we wait for a peaceful kingdom, where there is neither plague nor hardened hearts, we’ll tell the campfire stories of our lives and this church. We’ll pull up a chair, build a fire, pull out some graham crackers and marshmallows, and sit. We’ll sit with each other in the pain and uncertainty of this moment. We’ll sit with our own feelings of vulnerability, fear, or trepidation. But we‘ll also laugh. And celebrate. And mend each others’ feet.

We won’t be left behind in this wilderness, because God’s love for us, God’s presence among us, and God’s promises will never unravel. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Sources

Schwartz, Steve.  Baltimore Jewish Times; Baltimore Vol. 306, Iss. 4,  (Jan 23, 2009): 33