Lectionary
readings: Exodus 32.1-14 and Matthew 22.1-14
I
want to suggest that Jesus is the key to our reading the Bible. That every part
of the written Word points us to the incarnate Word, and that the incarnate
Word is the lens through which we must interpret the written Word. I recognise
that this might be called a logical fallacy, being a circular argument; but then,
I don’t believe that logic is well-equipped to handle transrational experiences
such as love or death or God or suffering. The Church proclaims that Jesus is
the alpha and the omega; the beginning and the end; the initiation, and the
completion. I want to bear this in mind today.
In
our Gospel reading today, I want to suggest that Jesus tells this parable as a
corrective to popular expectation concerning the Messiah. I want to suggest
that the son for whom the king throws a wedding banquet is the Messiah of their
expectation; that the servants are the people of Israel, and perhaps the
political-cultural-religious leaders of the people; that the invited guests are
the surrounding nations, called to recognise the heir to the throne of king
David, but either indifferent or openly hostile; and that the fate that befalls
them is the expected overthrow of the armies of Rome. I want to suggest that,
as a corrective, Jesus presents himself as the man who appears, unnoticed,
centre-stage, who confounds expectation (refusing to wear a wedding gown is
culturally offensive; Jesus repeatedly offends scribes, priests and Pharisees,
who ultimately plot to have him killed), is interrogated by the ruler but
remains silent, and who is bound and taken outside the walls to the place of despair
and impotent anger, the place of public execution. I want to suggest that Jesus
reveals to us that God rejects violence as a justifiable means to any end; and
that, by fully identifying with us in our deep grief, God, in and through Jesus,
fashions light from darkness, life from death, glory from suffering, hope from
despair.
But
we are journeying through the book of Exodus, and asking what does it have to
teach us about how to stand on holy ground? So, how does this Jesus help us to
understand, and respond to, the strange and disturbing conversation between God
and Moses?
First,
let’s consider the context. God has brought the people out of the land of Egypt,
out of the house of slavery, and to his holy mountain. There, he has spoken,
ten words that call into being life. One of those words concerns the people as
living images (or icons, or idols) of their God, an ardent God of steadfast
love, who observes the impact of the iniquity of one generation on the lives of
the generations that follow them, but who himself fashions kindness to
countless thousands who, in turn, observe his love for them. These ten words
are followed by further instruction, and then God calls Moses up the mountain
to meet with him alone. It has been forty days and forty nights (recalling the
time Noah spent in the ark) since anyone has seen Moses, while God gives him
detailed instructions regarding the construction, dedication, and use of the tabernacle—the
place where God will dwell in the midst of the people and meet with them—and
the consecration of priests to oversee this space. This consecration involves
burnt offerings, whose pleasing aroma will rise before the Lord God.
Seemingly
abandoned, and growing anxious, the people call on Moses’ brother, Aaron, to
fashion idols for them, visible images of gods who will lead them. This is a
clear departure from the words spoken by God in their hearing, the very kind of
decision-making that results in negative consequences for several generations,
though in no way negating God’s activity to fashion kindness in their lives.
It
is at this point that God—who observes such things—speaks to Moses, saying,
“Now let me alone, so that my wrath may burn hot against them and I may consume
them; and of you I will make a great nation.”
At
this point, one might accuse God of setting the people up to fail. I do think
that God is testing the people; but I don’t think the nature of the testing has
anything to do with failure and punishment. Any good teacher will assess their
class, to ascertain what they have understood; where the group as a whole, or
given individuals, need further instruction, or even a different approach. Seen
in this light, God, Moses, and the people, discover that the people are yet to
learn how to see God reflected in their neighbour, in one another—they think
they need some other image. This needs closer attention. If we can see Jesus in
the bread and wine, but not in one another, our learning is incomplete.
What
are we to make of ‘wrath’? It is a word that has only appeared once before in
the story, in the context of God’s care for the resident alien, the widow and
the orphan (Exodus 22:21-24), a care the people are to share, remembering that
they themselves were aliens in Egypt. The word is rooted in the word for
‘nostril,’ and the sense of smell is more strongly attached to memory than any
of our other senses. Wrath, then, appears to be concerned with taking a deep
breath in through the nose, and being reminded of something by the smell, by
the kindling of a sensation in the nostrils. It should be remembered that God
has just spent forty days and forty nights instructing Moses concerning the
burning of fragrant incense and of roasting meat.
This
burning wrath will ‘consume’ the people. The word, which does not occur in
exactly this form anywhere else, can mean accomplished, completed, finished. It
resonates with Jesus’ words on the cross, “It is finished!” It has to do with
process, and a coming through something, in continuity and transformation, as
perhaps, for example, grieving well brings us through bereavement to new life
beyond loss.
Might
we read Exodus 32:10 in this way: that God tells Moses to go from him, carrying
his instructions, acting with urgency, that incense and fat smoke might rise,
filling God’s nostrils, establishing a deep memory—for the people, as well as
for God—and bringing the people to completion as a great nation, in some way
fashioned from Moses?
Moses’
immediate response is to plead for his people. It is clear that he sees
something terrible in the experience of God’s wrath, fears that the completion
it brings will amount to annihilation rather than consummation. This is an
understandable reaction—even if it blots out the memory of the bush that burned
but was not consumed, trees always symbolising people in biblical imagery, in
this case the presence of God in the midst of his people—but it does not
necessarily make Moses a reliable witness in this moment. (None of us are fully
reliable witnesses.) Nonetheless his heart for his people is revealed, and this
is consoling to God, who takes up this compassion as raw material in fashioning
the kindness he has promised in response to human failure.
This
is not to remove passing judgement on wrongdoing from the nature of God, or
negative consequence from human action; nor even to seek to wash over troubling
passages in the Bible, of which there are many; but to seek to take seriously
Jesus as the fullest revelation of God—to whom all scripture points and through
who we read all scripture—and his rejection of violence as a means to an end.
It is to de-couple ‘wrath’ from ‘shock and awe,’ and ask whether, instead, it
has more to do with grief and the need—even, and perhaps especially, for
God—for consolation.
What,
then, does this have to do with us?
Our
first response to people who find life overwhelming, who are seeking to fashion
a life that works from whatever means they have to hand, should be one of
compassion. When Jesus saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, for they
were like sheep, lost without a shepherd. Wherever we are, we find ourselves
standing on holy ground when we show compassion towards others.
Arising
from this compassion, we should both go to them, and go to God. We should pray
for them, and teach them to come to God, who observes the mess we make, for
ourselves and our families, but is committed to fashioning goodness and
kindness in our lives. Prayer should be an act of memory—the memory of a
community, and the perpetual creating of new memories—the testimony of God’s
goodness and mercy, the hope on which we stand. An act of navigating loss and
disorientation—at times, prayer will have no words—and coming, in time, to a
fresh experience of steadfast love. Again, if we are to learn how to stand on
holy ground, we are going to have to learn how to pray.
Life
is messy, at times very messy. But God does not write us off, happy to start
again with someone else. God journeys with us our whole pilgrimage through this
world, and we reflect God’s suffering and glory. May we be strengthened to
stand before the Lord today, without fear and with great joy. Amen.
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