Text: Exodus 17:1-7, John 4:5-42
Their fear obliterated their memory and it erased their gratitude. Without water in the desert, they forgot that God had freed them from slavery, had defeated their foes, and had fed them as they searched for the land to which God had sent them. Now, thirsty, impatient, and terrified, they complained to Moses: where is God? Is God among us—or not?
Fear drives out the memory of God’s good acts and intentions. But we cannot escape being afraid. We have had times in our own deserts, parched, exhausted, lost. We will have them again. That’s why we tell ourselves the story of God and us over and over again. That’s why the God of Israel is named “God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt.” Why Jesus is named in the opening worship prayer as “Jesus Christ, our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.”
It is why we hear these stories Sunday after Sunday for our whole lives. It is why we read the Bible, the story not only of God or only of a people, but of God and us, God’s people, together. It is why the Baptism rite that we will soon celebrate starts by recounting God’s creation, God’s deeds, God’s redemption of Israel, and the baptism, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. And it is why we relate the story before we share Holy Communion.
Wandering in the desert, the people demand water from Moses. It is not an unreasonable demand, for without water they will all die. And they complain about his leadership. Has he sold them a bill of goods? Has he brought them here only to kill them, and all they have, and even their children? Moses has promised them freedom and prosperity, but so far the freedom has been the freedom to suffer and the prosperity a mirage. Yet Moses speaks for God in this book, and Moses can see as well as we can that it is God’s promise that they now doubt. Where was God?
Is God among us—or not? It is the mark of the Israelites’ despair that they wondered not only whether God was no longer with them, but—with that last little addition: “or not”—whether God had ever been with them. Have they erred in interpreting all of history? Perhaps, after all, God is uninterested in humans. Perhaps, against all the teachings of their faith, God had turned away from them. And they were alone.
It is a tragic moment. And though quickly turned about when God through Moses brings water flowing from a rock and they all drink, the terror of the moment remains in the minds of the wanderers and the tellers of this story. For Israelites are God’s people and God is their God. There is no story of Israel that does not include God. And the deepest sadness of Israel has been—as it is in this story—to think that God—whose existence is never the question—that God has abandoned them.
Centuries later, Jesus walks to the well in Samaria. It is the heat of the day, and he too is thirsty. The fate of Israel is uncertain in these times, divided within itself and occupied by the Romans. It has been a long and at times a dreary story that has unfolded from the time Moses struck that rock in the desert. There have been ups and downs, and now is one of the downs. The years have not been good to Israel. Things have not worked out well, Israel has been torn apart, exiled, resettled, corrupted, and conquered. The Temple in Jerusalem has been destroyed once and, by the time John wrote this Gospel, destroyed again. Is God among us—or not?
This is John’s question in his Gospel, and the woman’s question, too. Once she decides Jesus is a prophet, and maybe more than a prophet, the first thing she asks is a question about God’s presence. I see you are a prophet, she says. So: where is God? Is God up on that mountain—where the Samaritans worship—or is God in that city of Jerusalem—where the Jews worship? None of the above, Jesus tells her. He tells her: God is here, right in front of you. We are longing for the messiah, she says. Jesus says to her: “It’s me!” The one standing here with you.
Jesus in John, more than in the other three Gospels, is God among us. Jesus is here, in this world, staying here. In John, Jesus resides, stays, remains—the same word used over and over. Where are you staying, the first disciples ask him. Come and see. Come and see, the Samaritan woman tells her friends. And Jesus stays with them awhile. And they come to believe him.
For all his divinity—emphasized in John—still, Jesus in this Gospel is committed to this world, and the salvation that Jesus brings is one that affects this world now, at the moment. In John, more so than in the other Gospels, Jesus has affection for the world. He makes wine from water. He cries for his friend Lazarus. He prays emphatically for the well-being of his friends, the disciples. After his death and resurrection, he hangs around with them, and in the end they all share breakfast.
For John, there is no faith if God is not among us. Our faith and trust in God develop over time in relationship, just as they do between people. How can we believe in and trust a being whom we do not know? And how can we know a being who is not here with us? The story of faith is first: presence; then second: experience; and at last, third: belief.
The church is a steward of God’s presence. That is, through common action, and through repetition and rite and testimony we remind each other that God is among us—yes. Even in the face of inevitable fear and doubt. So it is that in the ceremony we are all about to take part in, we promise to “join with others in worshipping God.” All together members of the body of Christ.
We cannot remain free of desert times, but our fear need not destroy our memory of God, who is here, in this body, among us.
No comments:
Post a Comment