The account of the people, the poisonous serpents
and the serpent of bronze is a strange tale to our ears. The serpent wrapped
around a pole is known to us as a symbol of medicine and healing, but this
comes to us from Greek mythology, the symbol of the demi-god Asclepius; and
while the Greek tale is much younger, it does not appear to draw on this event
in the story of Moses.
It seems primitive to us: a God who strikes down
his own people, before relenting and instructing his prophet to create a symbol
which he will bestow with healing properties. And yet these ancient myths -
these stories that transcend the time and place where they are set - persist
because they reveal something of ourselves to us that we would be foolish to
believe we have outgrown the need for hearing.
In the grumbling of the people, in their becoming
numb to the gift of life God has graciously given them, a subtle but highly
toxic poison is already abroad in the camp. In sending poisonous serpents among
the people to bite them, God externalises what is already present in such a way
that it is exposed, that the invisible is made visible. The people do not
merely cry out to be rescued from the serpents, but come to their senses in
relation to the internal poison, to their self-inflicted wounds.
God’s response is not the provision of a medicine
to counter the snake venom; but, rather, to take that external visualisation
one step further: if they would be healed, the people must gaze upon a representation
of the serpent, which is itself a representation of their folly. They must
confront their own rebellion, must gaze upon their sin. But they must do so in
the way God has prescribed: for to do so is not to despair, but to dare to
hope; for in the very place where we confront our sin, we are confronted by
God’s mercy.
Moreover, God does not remove the serpents. They
continue to be present in that place, and continue to bite people; but now the
consequence no longer has to be death. In the serpents and the bronze serpent
the people are continually reminded - and we with them - of our own toxicity.
This strange tale reappears in the New Testament,
in the Gospel According to John, where Jesus tells Nicodemus that the serpent
lifted up on a pole is how he understands his own destiny: to be looked upon by
those who recognise their own sinfulness, and to be the means of healing for
them. This, perhaps, in his years of ministry as well as in his hours on the
cross.
But this is not our Gospel reading today. Today we
have some other sayings of Jesus and these too concern our theme. The
monumental folly of an unfinished tower, and history littered with predictable
military humiliations, are both examples of internal attitude externalised. The
unwise builder and the unwise king both seek to make a name for themselves
without self-knowledge, without recognising their limitations, their
falling-short of their aim. As we gaze on their ruin, we are meant to recognise
ourselves reflected back at us. And yet, again, in the place of confronting our
folly, we are confronted with God’s mercy. For as we give up all we possess -
in its abundant lack - to God, in Jesus, he takes our identity upon himself and
in exchange we are healed as the poverty of our nature is transformed by the
riches of his grace (if I may be allowed to let Epiphany break into Lent).
Those things about ourselves which we cannot face
- nor yet change, even if we could - we project onto someone or something
other. Left to our own devices, we project them in violent ways - against those
on benefits, or immigrants, or those of another religion; the most vulnerable
groups being the most easily demonised. But in his great love, God has not left
us to our own devices: instead, he has declared, ‘Project yourselves on me,
project yourselves upon me raised up on an execution scaffold; for as you do,
you will be healed.’
How, we cannot know, any more than we can fathom
how Moses’ serpent could be used by God. Yet, if we dare to trust that this is
somehow truth revealed, then gaze with me upon the cross - which is both ours
and Christ’s. Amen.
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