Exodus 33: 12-23
Matthew 22: 15-22
Moses and the Hebrews have been at Mount
Sinai for an entire year. They thought by now they would have
arrived in the Land of Promise and Plenty, stable and settled, with all of
the problems of Egypt
behind them.
They are not.
At least not the way they thought they would be. They are
still at Mount Sinai, still practicing the Ten Commandments, still figuring out
how to live together away from the court of Pharoah in Egypt. Still figuring out how to
worship a god whose face they cannot see and whose name they cannot pronounce. Because
YHWH, the one who leads the Hebrews to Sinai, refuses to be pinned down in a
graven image of wood or stone. “I am who I Am,” this god says. “I will be who I
Will Be.” Not always terribly comforting for those of us who want God to “make
sense,” stay the same, be whomever we want God to be.
And so the Hebrews are still at Mount Sinai, stuck in a
holding pattern with God: worshiping a calf of gold (choosing an image of
wealth they can see over a god who refuses to be rendered in an image), jockeying
with one another for control of the community when Moses is away, and just
generally missing the point of the honeymoon we are supposed to be celebrating
after the holy union we celebrated last Sunday.
They are frustrated. With God, with Moses, with one another,
with themselves. And, let’s face it, we can relate. Because which one of us has
not—at least at some point in our lives—gotten stuck in a holding pattern with
the Almighty? And maybe even—shall we be really honest?—with the people
the Almighty has given us to love?
The presbytery, for example. Or the Presbyterian Church of
Mexico, which has severed its official ties with us over our new inclusive
ordination standards. Or even our own families where the commitment may be strong,
but the compassion may be waning. We get stuck in a holding pattern, just when
we think we have re-committed to this holy union with God and with one another
and the new life that awaits on the other side of the wilderness. And we can
easily spend the better part of a year—or two—or ten—watching and waiting for
some word from God that will “fix it” and guide us on our holy way once more.
Just like the Hebrews at Mount Sinai did.
As we come to our lesson from Exodus this morning, Moses has
finally received that much-awaited word from God: It is time to move on. It is
time to let go. It is time to embrace an unknown path to an unknown land . . .
following with full trust this god whose face we cannot see. But before we pack
up our tents and gather extra food for the journey, Moses wants comfort and
assurance on this pilgrim journey toward wholeness. And surely this is also something
we can all understand. Will you really be with us God, he asks? Can we see you somehow
along this path that lies ahead? Being who you are? Being who you will be?
And God responds with grace and mercy, as God is sure to do:
‘I will make all my goodness pass before you,’ God says. Just lift up your eyes
to the hills, just trust that I will lead you. My face hidden from you, yes, but
my glory ever before you. Just trust that I will help you, because I have
called you by name, and you are precious in my sight.
The invisible, unnamable god of the Hebrews does, finally,
lead the people to a Land
of Promise and Plenty. The
same land Jesus roams as an itinerant preacher. The same land in which a temple
has been constructed as the central place of worship for God. The same temple
to which Jewish pilgrims from across the Mediterranean travel for the annual
Passover Festival, which is where we find our Gospel Lesson. Tuesday of Holy
Week. With Jesus and his disciples joining the pilgrimage. The Passover
Festival recalling, of course, the same pilgrimage of Moses and the ancient
Hebrews we have been ourselves remembering these past many weeks in our worship
life together.
Along the way to Jerusalem,
Jewish pilgrims from across the Mediterranean sing
hymns from the Psalter . . . special hymns designed specifically as pilgrimage
songs, including the one that our choir just sang. ‘I lift up my eyes to the
hills,’ Jesus sings, his disciples singing with him. ‘From whence will
my help come?’ we pray together. ‘My help comes from the Holy One . . .
the maker of heaven and earth,’ we assure ourselves along the pilgrim path.
‘The Holy One will keep you from evil. The Holy One will guard your life.’
The words of this psalm are near to Jesus’ lips as he rides
into Jerusalem
on a donkey to shouts of ‘Hosannah!’ Near to his lips as he enters the temple that
fateful first time. Near to his lips as he lashes out in horror at the
money-changing operation that leads him to turn the tables. Near to his lips,
as he lights into the Pharisees for their failure to see the madness all around
them perpetuated in the name of God. Near to his lips, as the Pharisees and the
Herodians approach him in the famous text from Matthew that is our Gospel
Lesson today.
Because the difference, in the time of Jesus, is that the hills
to which Jesus lifts his eyes belong to the Romans. The Romans own the roads; the
Romans own the [Jewish] kings, who are in cahoots with the empire for their own
political gain; the Romans own the coins; the Romans own everything. And, of
course, they pay for what they own by taxing the peasants mightily.
All harvests, all personal property, everything is subject
to Roman taxation. And if you think our tax rates are too high, think again. We
are talking subsistence living, we are talking about perpetual grinding debt. We
are talking about Jewish authorities doing the Romans’ dirty work as hated tax
collectors. We are talking about the perfect storm for inciting an armed rebellion,
which happened at least three times in the first two centuries of the Common
Era.
In response to this threat of rebellion, Roman guards line
the streets to “keep the peace” over everything they own. Meaning you cannot
take a pilgrimage, you cannot lift your eyes to the hills, you cannot seek the
face of God—or even just the Temple
of God—without running smack
into the face of the Romans. Especially during the pilgrimage to Jerusalem for
the Passover Festival, the festival that reminds the people every year of the unnamable,
faceless God who brought them out of oppression in Egypt and into the land that
the Romans currently occupy. Into the land they believe should really belong to
them.
To make things more scandalous, part of the practice of
Roman domination is to force Roman imperial theology upon the people of the
lands they conquer. They must worship the Roman emperor: the one they call,
ironically, ‘Prince of Peace,’ ‘Lord and Savior,’ ‘Son of God,’ ‘Divine.’ The
denarius—the Roman coin referred to in Matthew’s Gospel—has a picture of
Tiberius Caesar on one side and the following caption on the other: ‘Tiberius
Caesar, august and divine son of Augustus, high priest.’ It is literally brainwashing. A master stroke of
social control. And it worked for a very long time. Except for the province of Judea. Because they have come to be
monotheistic by the first century of the Common Era, because they absolutely
must not make God into a graven image, the worship of the emperor is flat-out
idolatry to them. And the coin that proclaims the divine son-ship of the
emperor is the hated symbol of that idolatry.
That is why money-changers line the Temple,
taking the Roman denarius and trading it for a Temple coin more fitting for the worship of
God. But their exploitation of this transaction for profit at the expense of
the poor stokes the ire of Jesus just two days before the encounter that is our
text for this morning. And so the Pharisees and the Herodians think they have
designed the perfect trap to catch Jesus in either treason or heresy. Because
Jesus has already made clear his disdain for both the system of Roman
taxation and the Temple
collusion with that system.
But Jesus is lifting his eyes to the hills. Jesus knows from
whence his help comes! Jesus trusts the Holy One to guard his life—and
eventually even his death—and Jesus turns their trap right back on themselves. ‘Render
unto the emperor the things that are the emperor’s,’ Jesus says. ‘And to
God the things that are God’s.’
And lest we delude ourselves into thinking this is the first
century version of the separation of church and state, let us remember that—to
Jesus—everything belongs to God. Everything! To Jesus, the Pharisees
and the Herodians reveal their idolatry, simply by asking the question.
Everything belongs to God, Madison Square Presbyterian
Church. Two thousands years later, on this Sunday, October 16, 2011, everything
still belongs to God. Two days after a global protest of a fractured financial
system, one week before our own stewardship season begins in earnest, one and a
half months into this pilgrim journey that will be our interim ministry
together. The bottom line truth of our existence is that everything,
everything, everything belongs to God. Everything reveals God’s face.
The validity of our own pilgrimage journey on this planet boils
down to this: whose image do we see—and whose image do we seek—when we
journey together as the people of God? Is it the face of whatever Caesar would
demand our allegiance at the expense of the poor? Or is it the face of God—who
cannot ever be fully known—but who claims every part of our lives for the good
of God’s most vulnerable people?
I hope it is the latter. I think it is the latter.
But we have some decisions to make if our allegiance truly is to the face of
God in our midst. Because Jesus put his body on the line, he put his life on
the line, he put his very faith in God on the line to say to anyone who would
listen that it did not matter how much they resisted Rome if they did not care about the person
sitting right next to them. That it did not matter how faithfully they paid
their taxes if they did not give alms to the Lazarus begging at the gate. That
it did not matter how much they prayed psalm 121 if they had bread they did not
share with the hungry. That it did not matter how much they worshiped at God’s
holy Temple if
they did not make room for the ones they feared.
This is what the prophets have always said: if you want to
see the face of God, just look around you. Just pay attention. The face of God
is in every creature you meet.
Our Deacons have responded to this prophetic challenge in
their commitment to respond to our neighbors in this downtown location when
they ask for our help on Sunday mornings, and I hope you will support them in
their endeavor. Our Session has responded to this prophetic challenge in their
support of the children and their teachers at our Child Development
Center next door, and I
hope you will support their endeavor as well. Even our Buildings and Grounds
committee has responded to this prophetic challenge in their rapid response to
the overheating of our Alcoholics Anonymous guests who use the third floor for
their meetings. And each one of us can respond to this prophetic challenge in
whatever way God’s face is revealed in our lives. We just have to pay
attention.
So take one step forward, dear friends, in the footsteps of
Moses, seeking the face of God in this pilgrim journey we are on. And know that
God is still your help, still your strength, still your guardian and your
shield, for this life and for the next.
In the name of the One who saw the face of God in everyone
he met . . .
I pray it may be so.
Amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment