Scripture: EXODUS 16:2-15
The man has lost his wife. She died several months ago, and for all practical purposes he feels his life is over. He has cereal for dinner, cruises the Internet for a few hours, flips through countless TV channels, talks to himself, and wonders where his life went. He’s an Israelite wandering in the wilderness. Like them, he may wish he had died rather than face this particularly gnawing hunger.
Several weeks ago, the woman has discovered her husband’s long-standing affair with his co-worker. She constantly feels like throwing up. What will become of their marriage? Their children? Their home? The illusion that all is right, that she has it all together, that life is smooth and easy has been shattered. She can’t imagine what will come next. And she, too, feels like an Israelite wandering in the wilderness. Like them, a part of her would rather die than endure this agony. Like them, she wonders how she’s going to go on.
The young couple has just gotten the news that their long-awaited pregnancy has what the doctor calls “complications.” A genetic abnormality has compromised the baby’s health, and made them wonder what the future holds. None of their options sounds right: they don’t want to abort, they can’t imagine giving the baby up for adoption, and they’re worried to death about their ability to care for a child whose prospects seem so grim. The wilderness is where they, too, find themselves. Why, they wonder, is this the hand they’ve been dealt. What they wouldn’t give to evade the whole matter and return to an earlier innocence.
The wilderness comes in all shapes and sizes doesn’t it. Most of us have experienced it in some shape or form. If you’ve never been there, consider yourself lucky. But don’t count on your run of good luck lasting forever. Because wilderness is an inevitable part of the journey of life. At one time or another, death or failure or shame or betrayal or physical or mental illness or a sheer aching barrenness is likely to derail the fastest and sleekest of trains and leave you stuck at the side of the track, wondering how it fell apart.
And what happens in these vast wildernesses so often is that we feel as though we’ve been abandoned by God. Life was going along so perfectly. We got the right job, our income soared, life was moving in exciting directions. And all of it seemed like God’s endorsement of us, God’s hand making it all come out right.
So when the bottom falls out, it’s as if God has left us alone. Here’s the equation we use: things going well, God is in charge; things going poorly, God is absent. When life purrs along, we’re like, “Yes, God, you are The One!” The plum job comes along, or the vacation house we’ve yearned for; our child gets in to the college they’ve most wanted or finds the perfect partner; the bonus check arrives in the mail—and we are all over the gratitude: “You’re incredible, God. You’ve made my day.”
When life falls apart, though, it’s as if God has left us to our own devices. “Thanks a lot, God, for not correcting the recession, for not giving me a job, for not providing me with the child I crave, for not healing my Parkinson’s disease, for not preventing my own depression. Big help you are—vanishing when I need you most.”
This is essentially what happens to the ancient Israelites. They absolutely cannot believe that what was supposed to be such an amazing gift—freedom from Egypt—has turned into the disaster they’re living. When they were in Egypt they had plenty of food, they were comfortable, life was relatively easy. And now here they are in the desert, wandering around in the heat, no comfy bed, no place to call home, their diet just slim pickings. “God, where’d you go? ’Cause you’re certainly not paying attention to us.”
They’re not the only ones, either. Like those ancient wanderers, you, too, may have grumbled about that apparent callousness on God’s part. “God, why couldn’t we just have died, rather than starving to death in this gruesome wasteland?” Many of us have voiced our frustrations to God. Not all of us, but certainly a number of us, have told God how ticked off we are about it all.
And part of what’s striking about this story from Exodus is that there’s no judgment made on that grumbling. The story doesn’t say, “They grumbled, and that was a bad thing, because it showed they didn’t trust God.” No, in fact it’s just the opposite. In the story, their grumbling is rewarded. Their complaining gets results. God is moved to do something.
A friend of mine isn’t the slightest bit shy about taking his complaints to God. He’s in an almost constant dialogue with God: why’d you do this; I’m not very happy about that. He says God must recoil whenever he starts to speak, knowing the torrent that may be about to emerge. What I can’t help noticing, though, is that this friend has one of the strongest faiths I’ve ever known. He grumbles, and he senses that God responds.
So the complaining here is a good thing. What’s even more noteworthy, though, is the way God responds. Let’s remember the context: in the days leading up to this crisis in the wilderness, God has burned in a bush in front of Moses; God has caused ten plagues to totally disrupt Egypt’s life; God has parted the sea and led the Israelite people through the waters. As showy miracles go, they don’t get any better than that. God has shown up in incredibly dramatic ways.
So when we come to this incident in Israel’s life—they’ve left Egypt and now, in their wandering, they’re pretty desperate—we sort of half expect that something equally huge and showy is about to happen. “Come on, God, one more miracle to cement the people’s faith.” That’s what God’s done so far, so why not now?
What’s so arresting is what actually happens. The thing God does for the people is not overwhelm them with an awesome miracle, but underwhelm them with something incredibly ordinary. The mind-blowing demonstration of God’s transforming presence is—wait for it—bread! Not leg of lamb or chocolate decadence. Not even toasted and buttered slices slathered with homemade raspberry jam. No. Just plain bread.
It’s as if to say: when we’re walking through hell, when we can’t get our bearings, when everything seems lost, what God does for us is not rescue us or take away the difficulty or make it all better. What God does instead is provide us with the simple blessings that surround us at every moment.
Bread: that’s the signal of God’s presence. The plain, unadorned sign of God walking in our midst. In all kinds of little ways, the presence of God pops up to transform the dullness or the fear or the pain, and make of the moment something holy and beautiful. This may not be what we want to hear. We still want the “Rescue God,” the one who will magically make everything right. (I suspect, by the way, that this is part of the reason for the proliferation of superhero movies in the last couple of years. With all the difficulties and tensions that stalk us, we’re looking, at some level, for one who will smooth it all over.) What God knows, though, is that that’s not what would be best for us, that life’s richness is inseparably tied to going through our trials rather than around them—just as the Israelites went through the waters of the Red Sea rather than around them. And that what we need on that journey through are regular reminders that we are not traveling alone.
Hard as it’s sometimes been, I’m a better person because of the struggles I’ve endured. But I would not be a better person if I thought I had to undergo the trials of life all by myself. I’m sustained—we all are—by the bread God has left for our journeys.
So where’s the bread in your life? Maybe your partner starts the coffee every morning while you’re still asleep. Maybe it’s the fact that you have a warm bed to sleep in. Maybe it’s the hot water in the shower. Maybe it’s that you have a reliable, even fun car, to get you to work. Maybe it’s that, though you’re not working, you have friends who make you laugh. Maybe it’s your morning walk or afternoon spinning class.
In her Plain Dealer column this week, Connie Schultz wrote about how her new neighbor retrieves her newspaper every morning and throws it right up close to her door (
http://www.cleveland.com/schultz/index.ssf/2011/09/returning_the_favor_of_unearne.html). All these things are bread for the journey.
The Hebrew word for the bread on the ground every morning is “manna.” It means literally, “What is it?” So often we don’t know what it is, do we? We may know it as bread or bed or coffee or a nice gesture from the neighbor. But do we know what it really is? Do we know that it’s the blessing of God visiting us, sometimes in the midst of terrible struggles? Do we know that it’s the nourishment of the Holy One for a sometimes desperate people?
I found myself, this week, looking for the manna, looking for God’s provision in the midst of the journey. On Tuesday, I had a small basal cell carcinoma removed from my chest—it’s the least dangerous type of skin cancer—and I was glad for doctors who can both identify such things and remove them. What is that sort of knowledge and care? Manna. Bread.
While she was doing the procedure, the doctor and I had an animated conversation about all sorts of things. Her husband is also a physician, and they have a nine-year-old daughter. The daughter regularly says to her parents, “I’m not going to be a doctor.” “Mommy, I’m never going to be a doctor.” “You know, I’m not going to be a doctor.” To which I said in response, “Please let me know, in fifteen years, when she heads off to medical school.” And we laughed. What is the laughter? Manna. Bread.
Then the doctor asked me what I did for work. I told her I’m a pastor, and she said she takes care of some 150 nuns in a local community, as well as a number of other clergy persons of various faiths. And unprovoked by me she said, “I’ve noticed something about religious people. They’re different. The fact that they believe in something beyond themselves makes them generally more trusting. They’re more peaceful, more accepting of some of the difficult outcomes. And I’ve noticed that they’re more grateful, as well.” It was fascinating to me that my Jewish doctor noticed this common trait of people of faith. Someone without an ax to grind on behalf of a religious life validating the fruits of faith. What is that sort of wisdom, that kind of common ground? Manna. Bread.
On Thursday evening, I had the opportunity to eat dinner with the four families Federated Church was hosting for the week through Family Promise. I saw Federated kids playing tag with inner-city kids with a kind of manic energy and joy. I saw a Federated youth spend the evening holding a ten-month-old guest. And I said to her, “Look at the size of that baby’s eyes.” Our teenager said, “Did you know that the eyes are the only part of the body that doesn’t grow during a person’s life?” I had no idea of that, and was so happy to learn from her. A group of girls sang and danced before dinner. A Federated family brought a fabulously succulent meal. It was so good, in fact, that I had to find out how they’d prepared it. And just so you know: the carrots had been cooked with dill and a little butter; the chicken with sour cream, butter and bread crumbs; the potatoes with basil, thyme, and garlic salt; all followed by a Jell-O dessert topped with whipped cream on a crushed pretzel crust. Just the memory of it makes me drool! What is that sort of meal? Manna. Bread. Gift from God.
The manna doesn’t suddenly make everything perfect and happy. The people still have another forty years to wander in the wilderness. But they have that gift. And strikingly, everyone has enough, every day. It’s shared. No one starves. It’s what people of faith call “community.” Along that sometimes fearsome journey, God provides. And we have the opportunity to share. What is it all? It’s manna. It’s bread. It’s sufficient for the journey. And if we heed the call of God, it’s enough for everyone.