Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity 2023

 

Lectionary readings: Exodus 14.19-31 and Matthew 18.21-35

There’s a story in the Bible of God parting the sea so that the Israelites can escape the Egyptian army. It is, in fact, a foundational story—perhaps the foundational story—for Jewish identity, and by extension (though seeking to avoid appropriation) Christian identity.

The Israelites had been a minority within Egypt for generations, first welcome, later looked down upon by the majority culture. Within living memory, they had survived attempted genocide. One of the child survivors grew up to be a liberator, sent by God to confront Pharaoh. An increasingly bitter stand-off ensues, open warfare between the gods of Egypt and the Creator God who, through Moses as messenger, marshals the lived environment against oppression in a series of plagues. Eventually, the Egyptians drive their Hebrew neighbours out of the land, Pharaoh even demanding a blessing upon himself as they go. Be careful what you ask for.

God then leads the Israelites on a bit of a wander around the northern edge of Egypt, going round in circles, until Pharaoh is convinced that the sea of humanity that has sought to be free of him—his supply of cheap labour—are lost. Seizing the moment, he mobilises his entire army—the elite divisions and the regulars—and sets out to surround the Israelites, who find themselves trapped at the marshes, with no escape route. But it is the Egyptians who are heading into a trap.

As the Egyptians circle the Israelites, hemming them in, God’s imminent presence with them, made visible in a pillar of cloud by day and fire by night, moves from in front of them to behind, standing between them and the Egyptians. As night falls, water moves, parting to the right and to the left, to leave a dry passage through the wetland. At the darkest point in the night, Moses instructs the people to cross over. They are literally stepping into the dark (the fire that has led them over recent nights is now behind them) navigating unfamiliar marshes blind.

But the marsh is merciful. Water parts and dry land rises, to make a way where there was no way.

With the pillar of fire as rearguard, they retreat to safety, the Egyptians following. And when the Egyptian army is surrounded by the marsh, the dry land welcomes the waters back, mud grasping at chariot wheels, waters swirling in, until, to a man, the oppressing army is drowned.

The marsh is merciful. Creation is merciful.

By which I do not mean to say that every natural disaster is an act of mercy. That would be a crass extrapolation in a complex world. Even in this instance, the mercy of creation left Egyptian wives and mothers lamenting the loss of their husbands and sons. That should be enough to disturb us in any rush to pass judgement on others.

And yet, God, who does not rush and is not rushed, does pass judgement on those who choose, and persist in choosing, to withhold mercy. To the merciless, God allows them to be trapped by their own ruthlessness, and eventually grants them the blessing of rest from their insatiable pursuit of injustice. A very public humbling.

Of course, when we think of this story (if we think of it at all) we like to cast ourselves as numbered with the Israelites, more sinned against than sinning, longing for our enemies to drown. And, in fairness, we may share some Israelite traits: a lack of trust, a quickness to complain. But, in truth, we are the Egyptians, and our mercilessness needs to drown beneath the rising waves. Which is precisely the symbolism (and efficacy) of baptism, in which we die to sin—trusting that death is not the final word. Egypt is not wiped off the map, just relieved of her militarism. In baptism, we die…and rise to new life in Christ—a life marked by mercy, hidden in the one through whom all creation is being reconciled, brought home to its Creator (Christ being the one through and for whom God created all things).

The crossing of the sea of reeds (also known as the Sea at the End of the World) is the culmination of the exodus from captivity in Egypt. But the book of Exodus is only getting going. The book of Exodus records for us how to live a lifelong pilgrimage, learning what it means to find not only moments or mountains but every place we may find ourselves to be holy ground. To stand on holy ground is to stand on mercy. To take a stand for mercy.

In our world, where there is an exodus on an unprecedented scale of men, women and children fleeing persecution at great personal risk, how might we live out this story today? With regard to our own fears, and prejudices, how might we live out this story today?