Archive for Moses

Fear Blights

Posted in Homilies with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 8, 2017 by timtrue

Exodus 20:1-4, 7-9, 12-20; Matthew 21:33-46


I begin today with a kind of parlor trick. Feel free to pass it along to your friends and family, especially the younger set.

<How to remember the Ten Commandments with your ten fingers.>

So, there it is. With this parlor trick, not only are you able to remember all ten commandments, but also you can remember which is which.

Now, before turning to today’s Gospel, I’d like to offer a couple remarks on this passage from Exodus:

  • Moses had recently freed the people of God from oppression: the oppressive hand of Pharaoh.
  • This new people was wandering in the wilderness, groping as if blind, not knowing their way forward.
  • As such, they were a new society in need of new rules. In addition to questions about religious worship, how were they to live together in relative harmony?
  • And notice Moses’ message: “Do not be afraid; for God has come only to test you and to put the fear of him upon you so that you do not sin.” In other words, Moses said: Do not be afraid; but be afraid of God.

Okay. . . .


Now, over in today’s Gospel we find some interesting parallels.

  • Jesus is seeking to free people from oppression.
  • This new Jesus movement is just that: new. And as such his followers feel much like they are wandering in the wilderness, not sure of a way forward.
  • Many questions surface about how to worship and otherwise understand corporate life.
  • And—while not specifically stated in today’s Gospel but most definitely a part of the larger context of his mission and ministry—Jesus shares a similar message: “Do not be afraid.”

But, unlike in Moses’ day, now it is not a political oppression that the people find themselves under but a spiritual oppression; and, ironically, it’s an oppression brought on by certain followers of Moses, the very agent of freedom we just heard about.

Back then, under Moses, the people wandered a little while longer, forging a path ahead, not knowing where God would lead. Their place of worship was a tabernacle: a large but flexible tent of worship, made so that in a day’s notice it could be packed up and moved to the next location.

Now, however, the corporate place of worship for the Jewish people is an inflexible, fixed, permanent temple.

The message under Moses was to fear God and obey his commandments—all ten of them.

The Jewish leaders of Jesus’ day, however, declare that there aren’t just ten; but 613. Now the people are called on not just to fear God, but also to fear those who on earth bear God’s special authority; namely, the leaders of the temple.

And so, like Moses, Jesus comes along and upsets the status quo.

He enters Jerusalem on the colt of a donkey amidst the shouts of throngs of people.

He goes to the temple courts and overturns tables.

He tells tricky parables that impugn the religious leaders.

And he suggests it’s actually not 613 commandments; not even 10; but really only one—in two varieties—love.

Do not be afraid, he says, like Moses; but, unlike Moses, his message is not to fear but to love. Love God; love neighbor.

And I cannot help but notice this detail: at the end of today’s Gospel, the religious leaders, who run their whole operation by means of fear—keeping the people fearful of God and of themselves—are themselves fearful: they do nothing to stop Jesus because they fear the people, who hold Jesus to be a prophet.


So, let’s carry this comparison-and-contrast exercise one step further.

Pharaoh was oppressive; Moses liberated the people and started something new.

Many generations later, the Jewish religious leaders were oppressive, keeping the Jewish laity under clouds of fear; Jesus sought to liberate the people and begin something new.

Now—one step further—here we are today, many generations later again, having established and maintained the mission and movement that this man Jesus began.

And where are we?

Have we listened to his message? Are we loving the Lord our God with all our heart, soul, and mind? Are we loving our neighbor as ourselves? Are we “a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom”? Are we bearing fruits of love?

Or do we see God as someone to fear? Are we keeping ourselves and our neighbors under clouds of fear?


Now, I’m not going to deny it: there is in fact much to fear in our day.

Just this week we heard about a tragic and senseless act of gun violence. Why is this sort of thing happening more and more frequently, we ask? And why isn’t more being done to stop it? We could have been one of the victims, we know.

And, rightly so, we fear.

Then there’s the seemingly increasing threat of nuclear war. What if North Korea doesn’t back down? What if our president does something rash?

Again, we fear.

And then there’s that nagging question of the environment. Science is warning us that the globe is warming at an alarming rate. There’s a great plastic patch in the Pacific, choking and otherwise killing off the life that teems there. How can we leave a healthy and thriving planet to future generations?

We fear.

Cancer hits close to home for all of us. What if I’m its next victim, we agonize?

And what of earthquakes, hurricanes, and other so-called acts of God?

Yes, there is much to fear in our world!—just as there was much to fear in the world of Jesus’ day; and in the world of Moses’ day.

But Jesus says, “Do not be afraid!”

To live under fear—and it doesn’t matter whether its source is human or divine—to live under fear is to live under oppression.

And Jesus came to free us from oppression.


But haven’t we been going down a rabbit trail?

This parable calls us to bear fruit. In the end, that’s who the landowner is counting on; that’s who will be called on to tend and keep the vineyard: those who are already demonstrating the fruit of the Spirit in their lives; those who walk in love as Christ loved us.

Bearing fruit is the point of this parable; and so what does fear have to do with it?

Just this: it’s how we bear fruit.

As he delivered this parable, Jesus was speaking directly to the religious leaders of his day. For our day, just like then, this is a message directly to church leaders.

The religious leaders of Jesus’ day were running the established religious institution by means of fear, not by means of love. They bore some fruit, sure; yet the little fruit they bore was sour and difficult—like 613 times more sour and difficult than it had to be!

Fear proved a blight on their harvest.

Part of Jesus’ mission was to change this, to take the religious leadership out of the hands of the few who led and controlled by fear and put it into the hands of those who would lead as servants, by means of love, and thereby bear truckloads more fruit; tasty and productive fruit.

This is a message for today’s church leaders. And so, as a leader of today’s church, I want you to know: I am committed to lead by love, not fear; and thus bear fruits of love, not fear.

But, at the same time, this is not just a message for today’s church leaders. It is also a message for the church as a whole—bishops, priests, deacons, and laity. For who else is going to offer spiritual leadership to society today?

Jesus’ message is to all of us, particularly this corporate body we call St. Thomas of Canterbury Episcopal Church and School.

In and around the Temecula Valley, and in fact throughout the world; in this day and age characterized by fear, Jesus calls us to fear not; and to bear fruits of love.


Divine Human Touch

Posted in Homilies with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 26, 2017 by timtrue


Matthew 17:1-9

What do you fear?

There’s an awful lot to be afraid of in this world.

Does anyone remember my fist sermon here?  I entitled it, “Making Peace with Ghosts”; and it was all about dealing with a fear I had as a boy of an imagined visitor that lived under my spiral staircase, the Seven-foot Man.  As a boy, I, along with my older brother Andy and especially my neighbor Donny, possessed a great fear of the Seven-foot Man.  We had to learn, as boys, to deal with it.

As I grew from boyhood into manhood, the clothes fear wore became increasingly less fantastic and more realistic.  Questions went from, “What if there’s a zombie living in my basement?” to, “Will I get into the right college?” “What if she doesn’t like me?” and, “How are we going to pay for diapers and baby food?”

More into adulthood now, the fears have increased in scope, becoming more outward in focus: “Why is there such hatred in the world?” “How much more abuse and mismanagement of resources can the earth take?” and, “What if there’s a global nuclear holocaust?”

What are your fears?

Is “Big Brother” watching you?  Are you in jeopardy of financial ruin, or feeling forever enslaved to that harsh taskmaster otherwise known as credit card debt?  Are—or (depending on how you look at it) were—your fundamental human rights of dignity and democracy in danger of being compromised?

What is it you fear?

Today’s Gospel rounds out Jesus’ epiphany. Here, along with Peter, James, and John, we see Jesus in his full glory; that though he is fully human he is somehow, gloriously, also fully God.

Now, that would be something to fear, don’t you think?

Imagine.  You’re walking up a mountain path, following your leader and trail guide, who suddenly is transfigured.  His face is shining like the sun.  His clothes become dazzlingly white.  Two ghost-like figures appear next to him.  And to top it all off a booming voice sounds from the clouds overhead!

These words that tell the story of Jesus’ transfiguration are familiar to most of us.  But a danger here is that their power can get lost in their familiarity.

So, let’s change the scenario up a bit.

Let’s say we meet in the church parking lot one Saturday morning.  Our plan is to hike up Telegraph Pass.  So, since I know the way, it is agreed that I will lead you.

An overcast day, sometime later we pass that last bend in the road near the top, and find ourselves entering and soon enveloped by a cloud.  Then, at the top now—we know we’re there because through the fog we can see the registry box and the bench next to it—all at once you see me with shining white clothes, so bright they even seem to shine through the mist.  And you think, “Man, I’m sure he wasn’t wearing that when we set out!”

And then my face lights up too, illuminating the registry box, the bench next to it, an ocotillo plant, the road, the two other people there with us, even your very arms and legs.  And—whoa!—now there are two more people—Where did they come from?—who by all accounts look just like Thomas Cranmer and Queen Elizabeth—the first!

And then—ah, music to my ears—that voice from above, booming through the clouds, declares to you all, “This is your pastor; listen to him!”

And you think, “Wow, my heart’s beating fast and I’m sweating like crazy and I’m out of breath.  Surely, I must be hallucinating.  This is it!  I’m done for!  Call out the SAR bird!”

Anyway, point being, wouldn’t you be afraid?  At least a little?  For your own health and sanity if for no other reason?

The disciples are so afraid, the Bible says, that they fall down, “overcome by fear” (“sore afraid” in the KJV), with their faces to the ground.

Yet Jesus reaches out and—don’t fail to notice this detail—touches them; and says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”

There’s an awful lot to be afraid of in this world.  Yet Jesus touches his disciples and tells them, Do not be afraid.


Jesus could have been like Moses.

Along with the Transfiguration narrative in Matthew today, we also heard a passage from Exodus.  In it, Moses went up on a mountain; the mountain was covered by a cloud; the people from below could see illumination on the top of the mountain, where Moses was; and we all know that when Moses came down from Mount Sinai, his face shone with such radiance that he kept it covered with a veil.

This Exodus passage is a clear parallel to Jesus’ Transfiguration.  Which led me, in my preparation for this sermon, to read up on Moses, the larger context; and to compare and contrast this story of Moses with Jesus.

There are numerous similarities:

  • Both Moses and Jesus go up on mountains.
  • Both have companions with them.
  • Both are enshrouded by a cloud.
  • Both hear God’s voice.
  • Both are described as radiant in one form or another.
  • And, in both accounts, other people hear God’s voice and are afraid.

But there is a key difference between the two accounts.

And here, in this key difference, Jesus could have been like Moses.

But he wasn’t.

And I’m glad he wasn’t.

And because he wasn’t, this key difference is what stands out above all for me from today’s passages, our take-home lesson.

So then, what is it?  What is this key difference between Moses and Jesus?

When Moses came down from Mount Sinai and saw that the people were afraid—well, let me just read the account:

When all the people witnessed the thunder and lightning, the sound of the trumpet, and the mountain smoking, they were afraid and trembled and stood at a distance, and said to Moses, “You speak to us, and we will listen; but do not let God speak to us, or we will die.”  Moses said to the people, “Do not be afraid; for God has come only to test you and to put the fear of him upon you so that you do not sin” (Exodus 20:18-20).

Moses comes down from Mount Sinai and sees all the Israelites cowering in fear before the might and glory of God and he says, “Do not be afraid.”

Fine and well.

But he doesn’t stop there.  No, Moses has to seize the moment, to capitalize on the opportunity; and thus goes on to say, in effect:

But, well, yes, since you are afraid, it’s for good reason!  God is testing you.  In fact, this is the reason God has come: to put fear in you “so that you do not sin.”

Now, Jesus could have been like Moses.  Jesus could have done this too.

But he isn’t.  And he doesn’t.

And I’m glad for that.

Instead, when his disciples see fearsome, wonderful, and awesome visions and hear the very voice of God, Jesus reaches out and touches them; and says, simply, “Do not be afraid.”

No lecture.  No admonition.  No teaching moment.  Just words of comfort and human touch.

What, then, is the key difference between Moses’ transfiguration and Jesus’?  One offers chastisement; the other, positive reinforcement through human touch.

Which approach do you respond to better?

There’s an awful lot to be afraid of in this world: “Big Brother”; financial ruin; the collapse of democracy; ISIS; terrorism; our own sin.  Why would I ever want to add to all of this an irrational fear of God?

In Jesus, God touches us gently, reassuringly, and humanly.


So, from our starting point of Jesus’ Transfiguration, we looked back to Moses and have learned a valuable lesson. Now I want to look forward, to us, the church, today.

What is it we are doing here?

In ancient times—both in the time of Moses and in the time of Jesus—mountaintops were considered a kind of liminal space, a threshold of sorts, between earth and heaven.  They were seen this way topographically—a mountain peak is physically higher than any other place around it—as well as figuratively—places to encounter God.

Moses encountered God on top of Mount Sinai.  Jesus was transfigured on top of a mountain.

We see this concept in other traditions too: the Greek and Roman pantheon dwelled on high, above the peaks of Mount Olympus; and the Delphic Oracle was delivered high on the slopes of Mount Parnassus.

In fact, even in our own day we refer to personal divine encounters as “mountaintop experiences.”

Mountain peaks were understood to be liminal spaces.

Today, here is our liminal space: church.  Here we come, setting aside for a time our cares, concerns, and preoccupations in the world; to meet God.

Now, take it a step further.  In a few minutes we’ll have opportunity to commune together.  Well, what happens when I stand up at the altar and lead us through the Eucharistic Prayer?  Somehow, mysteriously, the bread and wine become Jesus’ own body and blood.

And then, best of all, when we partake here at this liminal space, just like on that Day of Transfiguration when Jesus reached out and touched Peter, James, and John; so Jesus touches us.

God touches humanity in Jesus; God touches us in the bread and wine.

He picks us up from our knees, puts his arm around us, leads us back to our pews, prays with us, and, last of all, best of all, he blesses us and says, “Alleluia, alleluia.  Go in peace, without fear, back into the world, to love and serve the Lord.”

2015 Lent 10

Posted in Lent 2015 with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 28, 2015 by timtrue


Deuteronomy 11:18-28

Memory fascinates me.

Take the Homeric epics, for instance.  The Iliad and Odyssey were passed down for generations, sung by bards, before Homer put them in writing.  I wonder, how much did the stories actually change over, say, two or three generations?

They might not have changed much.  Poetry is like that, especially when sung.  (I still remember many lyrics word for word from my adolescent days when I start to sing the song whence they come: “There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold. . . .”)

On the other hand, they might have changed much.  We don’t know.

Fast forward a few millennia to the Brothers Grimm and Perrault.  Both these people decided to pen common tales that passed from mother to child in their respective regions, the Brothers Grimm in Germany and Perrault in France.  Here we find stories we all know, like “Little Red Riding Hood”; and some stories we might not know.  The penners share many stories in common, written within only a few years of each other.  But the tales often differ significantly.  If I remember correctly, little Red comes to a happy ending in one version but a tragic ending in another.

So, while Homer might have written down a story very similar to one sung a century before, we see evidence of European folktales changing over time.  The European ones were written in prose, though, not poetry.

This poses some interesting questions for the Bible.

With respect to the Gospels, four different and sometimes differing accounts of Jesus’ life, we must seriously consider how much the stories about Jesus evolved between his life, which ended near the year 30, and the writing of the Gospels starting some forty years later.

Forty years!  That’s a while, for sure.  My own family stories around the Christmas dinner table have certainly evolved over forty years.  My brothers and I seem to disagree about childhood details, for one thing; and we emphasize different themes in our respective tellings.

My family’s stories, like the Brothers Grimm’s and Perrault’s, are told in prose.  Comparing poetry and prose, then, it seems the latter is the more difficult to memorize.

Which again we should consider in the differences in narrative between Mark and Matthew, for example.

Still, the prose stories from one generation to another do not change drastically.  A recognizable Red shows up in both Perrault and the Brothers Grimm.  Jesus teaches similar lessons, tells the same parables, and performs recognizable miracles in all four Gospels.  My brothers and I can agree on most of the larger details.

So, how?  How do we memorize a story in prose well enough to pass it down from one generation to the next so that by the time it reaches the great-grandkids it is still a reasonably accurate family truth?

Or, if Moses didn’t in fact write Deuteronomy–as I am persuaded–how would a writer (or writers) some generations later remember his lengthy sermon?

Music provides a great suggestion.

Are you familiar with sonata-allegro form?  Just as we are taught to write essays so that they have form (introduction, body, conclusion), composers are taught musical forms of composition.  Sonata-allegro form begins with the exposition, where the major musical theme is presented; then moves to the development, where the theme is sort of mixed up, toyed with, and otherwise developed; and concludes with the recapitulation, where the theme is brought back in all its original splendor and reaffirmed.  The recapitulation says to the listener, “Yes, we’ve come home and we’re here to stay.”  Then the movement ends and is usually followed by a second and third musical form–second and third movements.  Or at least it was classically.

But the point I’m making here is that such form makes memorization of long passages of music–whole movements, whole symphonies, of music–possible.  I know from personal experience.  Just like the words from the Led Zeppelin song I mentioned above, I can still sit down at the piano today and rattle off (or mostly rattle off) the first movement of Beethoven’s so-called “Moonlight” sonata note-perfect from memory, a movement written in sonata-allegro form; a piece that I memorized in the fourth grade.

Form aids memorization.

Okay then.  Here’s the connection to today’s passage.  Today we find Moses reaching the end of his sermon’s first movement.  It’s his recapitulation.

He’s returned to the theme exposed in chapter 6: tell it to your children.  But instead of developing this theme by heading off into new keys, inverting it, or whatever else–which he already did, by the way, in chapters 7-10–now he says, “We’re home.  Tell your children about all this; and make sure to mention both sides of the coin.  Obedience to God’s word means blessing; disobedience, turning to other gods, is a curse.  You decide.”

If nothing else, then, such form makes Deuteronomy a beautiful work of literature.  But, as for me, I’m willing to go a step farther and believe that Moses actually said these things at a place and time in history, or something very much like these things–whether or not Moses actually penned Deuteronomy.

Wrestling and arguing notwithstanding, I’ve got to take Moses’ words seriously.

2015 Lent 9

Posted in Lent 2015 with tags , , , , , , , , on February 27, 2015 by timtrue

Deuteronomy 10:12-22

Nevertheless, I press on.

I may not be an Old Testament scholar.  I dabble in the Old Testament–this Lent, for example.  But I’m not a scholar.

Given the choice between studying Greek (the language of much of the New Testament) and Hebrew, it’s a no-brainer: Greek every time.

And given the choice between Greek and Latin, incidentally, it’s Latin.  But Greek is also something I make time for.

Not Hebrew though.  I feel too removed.  Unlike Greek and Latin, Hebrew seems too far out on the fringes to be worth my while.  There’s only so much time in the day, after all; and I’ve got a wife and kids; and a dog; and I want to keep up with my music and motorcycle habits.  Etc.

That said, the book of Deuteronomy is mostly a long sermon.  That’s where we find ourselves today: in the middle of a sermon, Moses’ farewell address to the people he has led, the people he’s loved and hated, for the past forty years.  Surely I can learn something from this!

So I press on with my scheme to offer a devotional commentary on the Old Testament passages from the daily office lectionary in the 1979 BCP during Lent this year.

And today makes this struggle worth it!  For today, in the middle of Moses’ farewell address, we find this theological gem:

“for your own well-being.”

Moses has been incessantly hammering his message into the hearts and minds of the people Israel.  “Hear, O Israel,” he begins, back in chapter 6, “the LORD your God is one.”  And he exhorts the people to teach their children when they rise up and sit down and all that.  Before long, however, he turns negative.  Remember all those times you disobeyed, he admonishes.  Practically ad infinitum!  Until the hearers (and the readers today!) have had enough already.  Okay, Moses, you’ve proved your point.  Stop being so critical already!

Then, suddenly, abruptly, ah, this gem!  Like a cloud lifting after a thunderous storm–even if only for a brief moment–Moses gives a refreshing, glorious reason for all his haranguing rationale.  It’s for your own good.

Following God has a purpose.  Good should result at the societal level; and good should result at the individual level.  In terms of the New Testament, we are being increasingly transformed from our fallen image of Adam into the perfect image of Christ.

Thanks for the reminder, Moses.

So I continue my study of the Old Testament.  And, while I hope never to preach like Moses, with an excessive focus on the negative, I never want to forget that my end as a preacher and as a follower of Christ is to equip my hearers to grow in their faith, to become more like Christ’s perfect image, into which we’re supposed to be being transformed, individually and societally.

2015 Lent 8

Posted in Lent 2015 with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 26, 2015 by timtrue


Deuteronomy 9:23–10:5

I struggle with a certain tension regarding the Old Testament.

A lot of it is difficult to understand, so I hold it at arm’s length.  When given the options to preach on passages from the Old Testament, a New Testament epistle, and a Gospel–as I am most Sundays–I’ll more often than not preach on the Gospel, with the epistle coming in second.  The Old Testament passage mostly gets pushed aside, relegated to a casual allusion or two on a good Sunday.

But at the same time the Old Testament holds a certain fascination for me.  There’s something really holy-feeling about the ancientness of these texts, a connection to a world far removed from the world I know today, far removed even from the Greco-Roman world, from Hellenism, upon which so much of our world today is founded.  Here is a window into things beyond and above me, a world something like Hogwarts, that I can enjoy only from afar, as an observer: if I try to delve too deeply, to go beyond the casual observer’s place, I play with fire (like a burning bush?).

Dungeons and Dragons held a similar fascination for me as a youth.  So did Alice Cooper.

And so here I am this Lent, trying to add intelligent devotional commentary to the Old Testament but feeling a bit in over my head.  Is it time to start flailing my arms in an effort to get the lifeguard’s attention?  Or is the current still manageable?

I look at today’s passage and I see Moses calling out the rebellion of the Israelites.  God was angry at them for their rebellion, Moses says.  But just a few statements later Moses acknowledges his own rebellion, when he smashed the very tablets of God, the very Ten Commandments, in a fit of a loss of temper.  (And I think, I’m sure glad my dad wasn’t like Moses!)  So is it true that God was angry with the Israelites?  Or, maybe, as discussed yesterday, is it more that Moses was angry and projected this emotion on God?

Then I remember that there is a millennia-long tradition that throws around questions like this.  It’s called Midrash.  An image of how it looks today appears at the beginning of this post.

In the middle of the image (which is simply a page from the Talmud) is a passage from the Torah, what Christians call the Old Testament scriptures.  The words written around the holy writ, in the margins, are essentially commentary.  But this is not the same type of commentary we moderns typically think of when we hear the word.  Rather, this is commentary from Rabbi after Rabbi, commentary upon commentary, stretching back in some instances for more than a thousand years.

In some sense it’s like an extended family argument–or debate if you prefer.  And always it sheds important if not authoritative light on how to interpret the Old Testament, which (if you’re like me) is both held at arm’s length and fascinating.

But–confession here–I’ve never actually sat down and given any Midrash a serious reading.  So, with my blog this Lent, you might feel (and I like to think) that I am approaching the Old Testament with fresh eyes.  But I cannot help but feel like I did when I “discovered” the Pythagorean Comma when I was a younger man.  I’d come to it on my own, yes, in some sense; but (as I’ve since realized) musicians have been discussing this mathematical-musical phenomenon at least back to the Renaissance (14th century), probably a lot earlier.

To change the metaphor then, am I just reinventing the wheel?

2015 Lent 7

Posted in Lent 2015 with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on February 25, 2015 by timtrue


Deuteronomy 9:13-21

The LORD was so angry with Israel, Moses says, that he wanted to destroy them all.  And Aaron, Moses’ very brother, was most culpable!  But Moses interceded–more like argued, actually, according to this and parallel passages in Exodus–and God relented.

This episode reminds me of the story of Jonah from Ash Wednesday’s reading, when God relented from his anger against the nation Nineveh.  God relented; and Jonah was angry.

Can God change his mind?

It’s like when a kid once asked me at summer camp, “Can God make a rock so big he can’t lift it?”

Without going into a scientific explanation about gravity and planets and suns and stars and black holes and where gravity is and is not effective and etc., I cut to the chase and said, “Do you want to know if there’s anything God can’t do?”

“Uh,”, he said, “yeah, I guess so.”

So I pointed him to a Bible verse that says God can’t lie, which seemed to satisfy.

But that’s kind of like this question: can God change his mind?

I like to think so.  I like to think that God is subject to emotion too, like me.  For that makes God more like me, not so infinite, not so omniscient, maybe even a little irrational at times.  I can understand God better that way.

Like the Greeks and Romans!  Their gods are very human, right?  What beginner in Greek mythology hasn’t heard about one of Zeus’ escapades, whether overcome by a fit of anger or of lust?

So, is God up in a heavenly board room pacing undecidedly back and forth, wringing his hands in indecision, fretting over the best plan of action in order to keep the universe’s harmony humming?

Er, um, maybe God can’t actually change his mind.

But that would mean God isn’t so much like me, that God is perhaps infinite and unknowable; and that we are thus left to our own finite capabilities in order to explain God–finite verbal capabilities like the use of metaphor to communicate truth.

We call God Father, but God is not a father in any earthly, physical, material sense.  We call God King, but the best we can explain is that God is like a king, albeit better than any king we could ever imagine.  These are metaphors we employ in attempts to understand God better.

So, maybe, is it that God doesn’t change; that God is actually immutable, as classic and Reformed theology teaches; that only our perspectives of God change?

Maybe God always was loving towards Israel, only Moses didn’t see it at first.  Maybe God was always loving to those foreigners, those Ninevites, only Jonah didn’t want to believe it.  Maybe it was Moses and Jonah who were mad enough to destroy something, not God.

And maybe that’s the lens through which we should read these passages.

2015 Lent 6

Posted in Lent 2015 with tags , , , , , , , on February 24, 2015 by timtrue


Deuteronomy 9:4-12

Today we are confronted with another passage to which a skeptic might respond, “Aha!  You see there?  This shows God as a harsh taskmaster.”

Indeed, Moses tells the people of Israel that God will dispossess the inhabitants of the promised land so that the Israelites will inherit it, as God promised to their forefathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.  This sounds pretty harsh for those inhabitants.

And, indeed, Moses then tells Israel that it is not out of any merit on Israel’s part, no righteousness or uprightness of heart or anything else they have done (or not done).  For you, O Israel, were wicked, he says.  Remember?

Remember how you “provoked the LORD to wrath” in the wilderness, how you made an image when I was up on the mountain fasting and praying for forty days and nights like a good Lenten man of God should, and how God was so angry with you that “he was ready to destroy you?”  Remember that?

This sounds pretty harsh too.

And that’s where we leave off today’s reading.

And so the skeptic says, “Aha!

“And yet I thought Jesus was supposed to be all about love.  I thought he even told a parable about three stewards who were given lots of money and told to go make more.  But one of these guys buried the money in the ground because he thought his master was harsh.  And in the end it was the guy who viewed his master as harsh who was in the wrong.  So I thought we’re not supposed to view God as harsh.  But how can you see God as anything but harsh?”

Well, Jesus is all about love.

And Jesus did tell this parable.

And, yes, we shouldn’t view God as harsh.

But there’s also a bigger picture to keep in mind here.

Moses may have been struggling with some emotion as he spoke to the Israelites.  He was human, after all; and subject to occasional fits of temper.  (Recall the Egyptian he murdered; the suggested thumping at the watering hole where he met his wife; and striking the rock with his staff–to name but a few sample temper tantrums.)

And we might want to make some allowance for redaction.  (Admittedly, the doctrine of scriptural infallibility runs into a certain stickiness here; cf. “2015 Lent 3.”)

But beyond all these criticisms, isn’t the main message here that God cares for God’s people?

There’s a certain comfort in identifying myself as a Christian, one of God’s own.  Anything and everything I have has come to me by God’s good hand.  There’s nothing I have that has come about by my own goodness, righteousness, uprightness, talent, skill, good looks, whatever–without God’s hand involved every step of the way.  To flip this idea around, all the enjoyments, loving relationships, and, yes, even my material possessions–all the blessings I know and experience each day–come from God.

That’s the real message here.  And that paints God as anything but a harsh taskmaster!

But I’m sure Moses had a few hard edges.