Into the Wilderness

With fall kicking off, we're back to three Sunday morning services (instead of the summer two) and I have to admit: I liked sleeping in, but I did miss preaching three times. Now that I'm not sticking to a strict manuscript, all the sermons come out a little differently--each one feeling organic and alive.

This morning's sermon text was Exodus 16:2-15 where God sends manna and quail to the complaining Israelites. Some themes were pretty obvious (Grumbling/faith, food/God's provision) so I started with some images/artistic depictions of manna. This one made me smile (from the kids' movie Cloudy with a chance of meatballs):

But I kept coming back to verse 10: 

"And as Aaron spoke to the whole congregation of the Israelites, they looked towards the wilderness, and the glory of the Lord appeared in the cloud." ~Exodus 16:10

I was captivated by the thought of God's people--gathered and listening to Aaron--suddenly looking into the vast expanse of wilderness when "behold! the glory of the Lord appeared!"

Why would God's glory be in the wilderness instead of with the people? What did it look like? If they had been in their own tents, would they have missed it? Why don't they react? What does this appearance of glory have to do with the manna and the quail? Why have I never noticed this 'glory' detail? Do we rush too quickly to the food stuff and skip it?

This "glory of the Lord in the clouds" theme brought me to a whole different set of images (c.f. Psalm 19:1 The heavens declare the glory of God and 2 Corinthians 3:18 We, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed). I discovered "Your Glory" by All Sons and Daughters and spent a breathtaking hour just marveling over images from telescopes, sunsets, and storms:

(we actually did this as part of our contemporary service--Your Glory paired with slide images).

Sermon prep continued with a poetry search which described 'wilderness' as everything from wild adventure to empty, expansive unknown. I didn't find any direct sermon content,but I think the act of reading poetry helped soften my stance and allowed me to think more fluidly through the text.

(if I find my notes I'll include a snapshot here)

Finally, I settled down with my brushes, cranked up an audio version of Exodus 16 and worked collage-style while the text repeated through several translations (thank you, Biblegateway.com).

• The 'glory' came out a lot like a fire; probably because I was thinking about the burning bush theophany (different Hebrew names are used though--I checked). 
• The wilderness section took a first person perspective. Rather than looking at the Israelites and their story, I wanted my congregation to look into the wilderness where God calls us...
•  the sky was a fairly simple blue, but I did deliberate on whether it should be morning or evening colors (16:7 depicts Moses/Aaron saying 'in the morning, you'll see God's glory' but Aaron speaks to the people before the quail appears 'at twilight' or 'in the evening' according to vv.12-13; Perhaps God's glory comes early? surprising us? It's also likely to be good 'ol source-criticism at work...)

 My favorite detail, however, was the addition of manna. I started to paint little gold dots at the front of the path (you know, to signify one day at a time) but they looked funny by themselves. So I put dots down the whole path. They scaled wrong. By now, my audio bible had played ahead to Exodus 16:31 (The house of Israel called it manna; it was like coriander seed) so I checked the cupboard for coriander--which we didn't have--and settled for quinoa. Quinoa looks like mustard seeds (yeah parable reference!) and has the added bonus of obscurity: "Quinoa? What's that?"

This depiction helped me internalize the importance of manna as a daily occurrence--something that took the Israelites step-by-step through the wilderness. Surely, grace and transformation doesn't happen all at once. Surely, God continues to bring us away from our slavery to sin and our complacent dependence on fleshpots in order that, step-by-step, we might bring our faith into the wilderness where God's glory already occurs...

Mustard Seeds

I recently came across two sermons: one by Anna Carter Florence and one by Nadia Boltz-Weber. Both riffed on Jesus' parable language wherein the kingdom of God is compared to something totally ordinary (e.g. "the Kingdom of God is like an oncology nurse who laughs with you at 2am."~Florence "The love of God in Christ is like a rental truck your friend insists on paying for so that your I’m-divorced-now-and-moving-into-another-house move is less difficult for you."~Boltz-Weber "The Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed." ~Jesus).

...and I've had my own encounters lately, too.

• The Kingdom of God is where a 5th grader steps into the pulpit and reads "the something river" because 'Euphrates' is hard to pronounce (Genesis 2).
• The Kingdom of God is standing next to a homeless woman singing hymns: loudly and beautifully, in a scratchy but authentic voice.
• The Kingdom of God is standing in a kitchen with two mothers who found something that made them laugh--even in the face of domestic violence.

The kingdom of God is near. And it's here. And it's coming.

Late reflections on the Great Banquet Sermon

I preached a sermon earlier this year where I kicked the written manuscript and did something entirely different (see it here)...but I never finished the reflection.

While painting I noticed that:

• Watercolors don't generally give way to hard stark lines, so the images (and ideas) play themselves out with gentleness. It's a slow, formational becoming--much like Christian discipleship. I suppose written manuscripts work this way too, but writing uses stark words like cut and delete. A painted manuscript allows things to brush and flow together--meaning mistakes aren't erased. They're gently reformed. Redeemed.
• In painting this, I started with the table--and the one at the table who welcomed others in (perhaps because my theology starts with God's hospitality and the church's sacramental call to share that grace with the world?). The empty stool is there to signify welcome, room, invitation.
• We're preparing for Lent, so I put a purple altar cloth on the table. I decided, too, to put a pool of purple/blue surrounding that table (which kind of became a mark of sitting at the table--sitting in the pool of grace which spills over into the world). So when I painted the person sitting in front of the table, I surrounded them with purple too (the image of sanctifying grace, if you will). ...also, I painted this scene out of order (maybe because I'm focused more on 'my church' than on 'the world'?). 
• When I added the person who rejected the invitation and turned away from the banquet (the person in the left corner) their robe was in brows and greys instead of the bright, whitish blue. However, I made the intentional decision to still carry purple gently into that corner because no one, no one, is without God's grace.
• The person in the far right corner--the one invited from the"highways and hedges" who might feel forgotten or far away--that person has the same pool of purple.
• The servant figure inviting the guests definitely has the bright purple connection too (seen more vibrantly, of course). 

After painting, I saw:

• Painting the parable allowed me to see scripture differently. Normally, Jesus' story of the great banquet is seen as sequential, scene-by-scene (the servant invites those who reject the invitation, and then others are invited in, and then even more are invited in). Painting the whole story held everyone in remembrance--together. Yes, there are those who sit at the table, but those who rejected the invitation don't cease to exist (prodigal son, anyone?).  Likewise, it's important to remember than even when we are at the table, there are still others who haven't made it there yet--and there's still room (lost sheep? eh? eh?). 
• There's also something beautiful about seeing the story at a glance and recognizing that we are invited into the scene, too. When you see it, you're invited into the story.
• It wasn't until I finished the painting and stepped back that I realized the characters with the brightest connection to grace--the host at the table, the one sitting and celebrating, and the one going forth to serve--they formed a Trinitarian image. The Father hosts, the Spirit dwells in holiness (indwelling in us), and the Son--the servant--goes forth to invite others in.

In preaching:

• My sermon was very simple: Where are you sitting in this story? Is it well with your soul there? Where should you be sitting?

• Instead of showing the manuscript to my congregation (we don't have screens in our traditional services) I decided to 'enact' or recreate it. I asked for five volunteers and they improvised a 'posture' for each character in the scene:(e.g. "the person in the church who stands as host, actively welcoming others...what might that look like?" My volunteer stood behind the altar, arms wide. "Someone who rejects God, intentionally or accidentally because they're too busy or something has upset them?" the volunteer turned AWAY from the altar, arms crossed...)
• We did this until we had the parable depicted in a freeze-frame scene--discussing the pros and cons of each posture (the person at the table might forget to welcome others in; the congregational host or outreaching servant might forget their own need to sit and celebrate with God; etc...)

Where are you sitting in this story? Is it well with your soul there? Where might God be calling you?

My only lament is that this was not a Communion Sunday.