‘Thus
the Lord used to speak to Moses face to face, as one speaks to a friend.’
Once
upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was a man whose name was Moses. Every
morning, Moses would get up and go out to visit his friend, the LORD.
And every day, everyone else would stand and look on from a distance, because
it was at-one-and-the-same-time a very strange idea to them that you could be
friends with God, and yet a deeply compelling one.
The
LORD
and Moses would meet; and afterwards, Moses’ face would shine. It shone so
brightly, after they parted, that no-one else could bear to look on Moses’
face, and he was forced to hide the glory-halo behind a veil until the radiance
faded. That strange-and-compelling idea kept niggling away at them, disturbing
their thoughts.
‘…if
I have found favour in your sight,’ Moses asked the LORD,
‘show me your ways, so that I may know you and find favour in your sight.’ Or,
‘if you would like to be my friend, tell me about yourself – what you like, and
what you are like – in order that I might get to know you better, and so be a
good friend to you.’
And
again, ‘Show me your glory, I pray,’ Moses asked. To which the LORD
responded, ‘I will make all my goodness pass before you, and will proclaim
before you the name, “the LORD”’ … ‘But,’ he
added, ‘you cannot see my face; for no one shall see me and live.’ Or,
Moses:
‘Show me what really makes you tick, what gets you out of bed in the morning.’
The LORD:
‘That’s easy: what does that is the opportunity to show goodness to others, to
bless their lives with unexpected gifts and to lighten their load … But, you
can’t see me for whom I am without dying to yourself – that is the cost of true
friendship.’
On
the Day of Pentecost, Jesus’ disciples were gathered in the upper room – where,
fifty-two days earlier, Jesus had told them that he no longer called them
servants, but friends – when the LORD
turned up. The LORD; Moses’ friend. The
one who had brought his people out from slavery in Egypt, into freedom.
The
one the people stood at a distance to see when he came calling on his friend
was back. And in case anyone was in any doubt, the encounter left his new
friends’ faces shining with the reflection of his glory, as if tongues of flame
were dancing round their heads. Like Moses. And, indeed, like the bush where
Moses first met the LORD, which burned without
being consumed.
What
is the outpouring of the Holy Spirit on all flesh at Pentecost for? Whatever
else, it is the invitation to be friends with God – an invitation extended
to those nearby, and those standing far off.
Now,
that is massive. Here in the north east, where men don’t speak with their best mates
about anything of consequence, but bottle things up inside until they can’t
cope and it takes a toll one way or the other, it is almost unbearable. Alright
for the vicar, perhaps, so long as he hides it; but not for the likes of
ordinary folk. Except that ordinary folk are exactly who Pentecost is for: young and old, men and women. All of us, being transformed from one
degree of glory to another, as we continue in our friendship with the LORD.
What
does it mean, to have and to be a friend?
What
does it look like?
What
does it do in, and for, us; and through us, for another?
What
does it do to us, not having friends, or at least, not having friends with whom
we can speak openly, face to face, about the deep and true and often shunned things
that make us who we are?
How
might we grow together, as friends of God?
How
might we do that in a way that is both appropriately authentic to the culture
of the north east and yet at the same time counter-cultural and transformative,
where our culture is not serving us well?
I
don’t have the answers to those questions. But we have been given one another,
male and female, young and old. And we have been given the Spirit of God, come
out to meet us day by day. And where the Spirit of the LORD
is, there is freedom. Freedom, to live into, over the course of a lifetime.
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