2023-08-28
Brooke Strong
Sermon Text...
August 27, 2023 Hamilton Coe Throckmorton
Exodus 1:8-2:10 The Federated Church, UCC
Sometimes, and for some people, the Bible may seem like a stuffy, out-of-date collection of odd and anachronistic stories, irrelevant and dull as can be. And they can, indeed, sometimes come across that way. You may well wonder: what can the Bible possibly mean to me?
When we let many of these stories enter our imagination, though, what we find is that, like the best dreams that come over us in our sleep, these tales nudge us to remember what really matters, and what our lives are most deeply about.
Today’s story from the Bible’s second book is the beginning of just such a story. The word “exodus” means “exit,” of course. We might use it to refer to the flight of Ohioans to Florida each winter, for example—there’s a mass exodus of people who weary of northern cold and snow.
Taken more literally, the word “exodus” means “the road out.” It’s from two Greek words meaning just that—hodos meaning “road” and ex meaning “out of.” The biblical story of the Israelites being led out of captivity in Egypt and into the wilderness that will eventually lead them to the promised land is the definitive story of the act of exodus. That is the story at the heart of the biblical book of Exodus and indeed of the entire Hebrew scriptures. If we were to say that the New Testament is fundamentally a witness to the God-enabled power of resurrection, then we might well say that the Hebrew scriptures are, at their core, about the stunning gift of a God-enabled exodus from captivity, an exodus led by the great luminary Moses. Exodus: the road out of captivity and into freedom.
Taken at a surface level alone, the biblical exodus is a riveting story. Israelites are enslaved in Egypt, and Moses leads them through the Red Sea waters that miraculously part as they barely escape the Egyptians furiously chasing them. Picture the scene in Cecil B. DeMille’s movie The Ten Commandments. In this age of incredibly sophisticated CGI, the story might make a great Marvel or Mission Impossible film.
The truth of the matter, though, is that the exodus is far more than just a thrilling escapade, an escapist yarn to maybe entertain us. Like all great biblical stories, the story of the exodus is really only remembered and told because it’s your story and mine. It echoes in much of our lives. Its resonances wend their way through the ordinariness of our days. At its heart, this is a story of our captivity and God’s gift of freedom.
All of us, at one time or another, know what it is to be captive to forces beyond our control. Maybe the size of your mortgage hamstrings you and lets you feel you have little discretionary spending capacity. Maybe your income is the “golden handcuffs” that keep you shackled to a job that sucks you dry. Maybe you feel trapped by a child who has not yet launched, or a parent whose incapacity makes them utterly dependent on you. Maybe you live at the mercy of a violent partner whose rages paralyze you in fear. Maybe the inevitability of the aging process has stolen coordination and abilities that you have treasured. Maybe the grief you feel at the loss of a child or partner or parent or friend has extracted all the joy from you. Maybe a loved one has baked in the Arizona heat or been flooded in the Vermont rains or been left homeless by the Lahaina wildfires. Maybe a compulsion or addiction has gripped you with a ferocity that doesn’t let you see any possible way out—you can’t stop drinking or watching porn or making bets on every facet of every game. And maybe you’re not experiencing any of this now, but you see it in someone you love. Or, when you’re honest, you know it could just as easily happen to you.
At some level or other, you and I know captivity. It seldom leaves us alone for long. To allow ourselves to really acknowledge the full effects of that captivity can leave us demoralized, trapped—as though there’s no way out. The stunning thing, though, is that that’s not the end of the story. The gift of the biblical saga is that all along the way, an unrelenting series of God-moments changes the trajectory of the apparently imprisoning story. And that can be true for us, as well.
In the biblical exodus, none of those life-changing God-moments is more surprising or endearing than the snippets of beauty and wonder that show up at the very beginning of Moses’ life. As it happens, the grace that insistently inserts itself into this story is all embodied by women in whose imagination and daring and devotion God’s presence comes to life. Two midwives, Shiphrah and Puah, are instructed by the Egyptian king to kill all the male babies of the Hebrews. They disobey, though, and, in their insouciant way, they say to the king, oh so innocently, ‘Oh, there were just too many Hebrew births and the Hebrew women were too strong, so we couldn’t obey the order.’ No murders for them! Clever, indeed! Captivity is thwarted. Liberating God-moment!
Then when a Hebrew woman gives birth to what should be a doomed baby boy, she cleverly hides him in a makeshift basket in the Nile. When the daughter of the king finds the baby in the reeds near the river, she decides not to obey her father’s orders to kill it. Then the baby’s older sister, who’s been watching all this unfold, tells the king’s daughter she knows just the woman to nurse the baby in its infancy. And voila, who should this readily available nursemaid be but the baby’s birth mother, who just happens to be primed to nurse! These five women—two midwives, the king’s daughter, the mother of the baby, and the sister of the baby all, in their own ways, resist the destructiveness of the forces arrayed against them. Vitality and hope are kept alive and enhanced by these visionary, courageous women. Captivity is thwarted. Liberating God-moments, all.
The story of Moses and the people fleeing Egypt through the parted waters simply would not be possible without these ordinary graces early in the story. Each of these five women plays a part in embodying the liberating power of God right in the midst of their everyday lives.
We as a congregation are in the midst of what the church, in its wisdom, calls the season of Ordinary Time. It’s the season between Pentecost in the spring and the first Sunday of Advent in early December. This is not the season of the big events of Jesus’s life—the birth and death and resurrection. It is, instead, the season when we live into the presence of holy grace in even the most ordinary moments of life. It’s Ordinary Time.
And in this ordinary time, the nurturing, midwifing, mothering, daughtering, liberating grace of God shows up in all sorts of everyday ways. The other day, Mary and I were grocery shopping, and as we walked through the store, we kept running into the same family on each new aisle. There were six children in the family, one an infant, the other five all under the age of about eight or nine. They were with their mother. There were two shopping carts, both being pulled or pushed by some of the children. Every time we encountered them, I was struck most by one overriding impression: the mother’s equanimity. She was not the way I would have been with six young children in the grocery store! She was utterly unflappable—totally engaged with the children, laughing affectionately at their endearing antics, calmly leading them through the store. She showed not a hint of anxiety or frustration. She was just totally present with them, and they clearly adored her. When we were almost done shopping, I said to her, “You do this with the most serene and gentle disposition.” She smiled appreciatively and said, “Well, they’re great kids.” To which I replied, “And you set the tone.” No apparent captivity there. In this woman’s attentive presence to her children, I saw a simple, nurturing, motherly grace. This patient presence is the way God is with all of us. And it’s us at our God-given best.
On Monday evening, Mary and I went to see the movie “Barbie.” Not a sentence I thought I would ever say! I found it utterly engrossing, and moving in a way that I hadn’t expected. And one of the highlights of the film, as any of you who have seen it will remember, is the speech in the second half made by the character Gloria, played by America Ferrera. This is what Gloria says to the confused and lost and searching—maybe we should say captive—Barbie: “It is literally impossible to be a woman. You are so beautiful, and so smart, and it kills me that you don’t think you’re good enough. Like, we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow we’re always doing it wrong.
“You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but also you have to be thin. You have to have money, but you can’t ask for money because that’s crass. You have to be a boss, but you can’t be mean. You have to lead, but you can’t squash other people’s ideas. You’re supposed to love being a mother, but don’t talk about your kids all the damn time. You have to be a career woman but also always be looking out for other people.
“You have to answer for men’s bad behavior, which is insane, but if you point that out, you’re accused of complaining. You’re supposed to stay pretty for men, but not so pretty that you tempt them too much or that you threaten other women because you’re supposed to be part of the sisterhood.
“But always stand out and always be grateful. But never forget that the system is rigged. So find a way to acknowledge that but also always be grateful.
“You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line. It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.
“I’m just so tired of watching myself and every single other woman tie herself into knots so that people will like us. And if all of that is also true for a doll representing women, then I don’t even know”
(https://www.townandcountrymag.com/leisure/arts-and-culture/a44725030/america-ferrera-barbie-full-monologue-transcript/). It’s a remarkable moment in a stirring film. No captivity for Gloria, or for Barbie. For Gloria to utter a truth like that so simply and so eloquently and so powerfully is immensely freeing. None of us who witness it is quite the same after hearing it. A compelling, eloquent, sisterly grace. This is the way God is. And it’s us at our God-given best.
Countless women have shown us the face of God. Here are two who have had an especially big role in showing that holy face to me. These are my two granddaughters, Allie, age five, and Riley, age three. They live in Columbus with their parents, Alex and Cynthia, and this summer we had several opportunities to spend time with their family. Some of you know that the two girls and I didn’t immediately bond, in their infancy and early toddlerhood, with the kind of stereotypical grandparent/grandchild intimacy we may well picture. For me, the relationships with the two of them were a little slower in blooming.
This summer, though, for really the first time, I had ample time with each of them by herself. And it was magical. Here we are, the three of us, running up a hill on a rainy day near the ocean in Bar Harbor, Maine. We would race down the hill toward the water, screaming in delight. And then we would head back up to do it again. And here are Riley and I on that same hill.
So here’s what happened with the two of them and me. When Riley and I were together with the family for Mary’s birthday in West Virginia a few weeks ago, the two of us were out on the sprawling lawn one late afternoon while the others were inside preparing dinner. And we found ourselves under a bush. And I said to Riley, “Is this your house?” And she said, “Yes, it is.” And I said, “Can we have a tea party?” And she said, “Yes, we can.” So we sat together having a tea party in that house under the bush. And after a little while, I said to her, “Would you like to come over to my house?” And she said she would. So off across the lawn we ran. And under a big pine, we spent time in my house. Then she said she’d like to take some of the pinecones that were in my house back to her house for decoration, so we did that. And we had some more tea! And we got some more pinecones and brought them to her house. And we talked and we laughed. For an hour and a half. Just the two of us.
A little later, her older sister Allie came outside, and she wanted to play, as well. She remembered a day months earlier, a day I had long forgotten, in which I had chased her around their house, menacingly growling at her, “You’re in big trouble, Missy!” And Allie looked at me with these big wide eyes filled with a mischievous twinkle, and she said, “Gaga, chase me and say, ‘You’re in big trouble, Missy!’” So off she ran, and I chased her, and I growled at her that she was in big trouble, and she laughed uproariously.
And all of it, my time with Riley and my time with Allie, was a bit of heaven. These girls and their playfulness and their devotion and their living totally in the moment—this is a granddaughterly liberating from captivity. It’s the way God is. And it’s us at our God-given best.
Midwife, mother, nurse, sister, daughter, granddaughter—as in the story of Moses’ birth, these are some of the shapes God takes in our everyday, ordinary lives. And it is glorious. And it is radiant. And it remakes the world, one little bit at a time. May we welcome that God into our lives. And may we embody that God in all we do and are. Thanks be to God!