This morning, our primary scripture readings tell us about people who were thirsty; about people who
find unexpected water from unexpected sources.
We have a story about Jesus that is probably familiar to many of you: Jesus and the woman at the well.
In this story, Jesus’ humanity is revealed in his thirst; Jesus seeks water from an unacceptable source;
and ultimately, Jesus offers living water to the woman and the entire community.
In Exodus, we have another, less familiar, story about thirst. And there is nothing metaphorical about
the thirst in this story. The focus here is squarely on the fact that the people have been wandering
through the desert, there is no water, and they are thirsty. Not just thirsty, dehydrating. It is with these
thirsty people in the desert that I want to spend some time this morning.
I’ve been thinking about them a lot this week; trying to imagine the journey of these Israelite people.
The fearful, furtive packing. The escape through the Red Sea. How do they know if they have made
it? How do they know if they are really free? For many of the people there must have been days,
weeks, maybe even months of glancing over their shoulders, of startling awake at night, of peering
back toward Egypt, scouring the horizon. The slave-masters could still come to claim their property.
Pharaoh surely had troops that were not swallowed up in the Sea.
And so the people try to move forward, toward the land God has promised. They take one step and
then another across the shifting sands of the desert. They push and pull and carry their children
and their belongings. They try to shade themselves from the brutal sun during the day. They huddle
together for warmth at night. The cloud and the pillar move ahead of them, and the people follow.
Yet still they look back. Every once in awhile. Less and less often, they glance to the horizon just to
make sure . . .
Of course, the initial excitement of the escape wears off–as excitement tends to do. Moses, who began
as a great heroic leader, seems more and more like an annoying father. You know, that kind of father
who insists on enforcing ridiculous rules that nobody else’s dad makes them follow.
All these people who were once fellow slaves are now fellow travelers. And they have some annoying
habits, it turns out. They snore. They tell bad jokes. They stop right in front of you to fix their sandals
without warning. Making this trek with the whole tribe is trying, to say the least.
It also turns out that they don’t get to the land of milk and honey quite as soon as folks had been
hoping. Instead, they are wandering through the land of sand and . . . more sand.
And sand being something you cannot drink, the people get thirsty. The first time this happens,
they complain and God commands Moses to make the bitter water drinkable. Then, with sand being
something they cannot eat, they get hungry and complain again. So God provides quail and manna in
the desert. And now, in today’s passage, they are thirsty again.
Many folks who read the Bible come to the conclusion that the Israelites were just a bunch of
whiners: “We’re hungry. We’re thirsty. Are we there yet, Moses?” But Old Testament scholar David
Garber recalls his visit to this part of the world. He says, “after having traveled by bus and with
plenty of water through the Sinai desert, I realize that these newly freed slaves actually had reason to
complain.”
Being hungry–truly hungry; being on the brink of dehydration, these are serious matters. The Israelites
did need food. They did need water. They are not demanding any sort of luxuries out there in the
desert. Their whining is nothing more than the simple prayer that Jesus later teaches: Give us this day,
our daily bread.
We can understand, I think, that the people were thirsty. That they were hungry. Asking for water
is one thing. But I think the part that really gets to us is this question: “Why did you bring us out of
Egypt?” Is it possible that they would rather be enslaved in Egypt than free in the wilderness?
Yes, it’s entirely possible. Before, when they were hungry, the people said to Moses, “If only we had
died by the LORD’s hand in Egypt! There we sat around pots of meat and ate all the food we wanted,
but you have brought us out into this desert to starve this entire assembly to death.” (Ex 16:3)
Last week we talked about being called to new birth–Abraham and Sarah called to leave home;
Nicodemus called to a new faith. “New birth” has a nice happy sound to it. But the reality of new birth
is often not nice and happy–especially in the beginning. The reality is that new birth often thrusts us
out into the wilderness. And this wilderness wandering often leads us, like the Israelites, to question
whether we weren’t better off in the old life after all.
The new life to which God calls us is better life, but it is not necessarily easier life, not necessarily a
more comfortable life. When the Israelites say, “We were better off as slaves in Egypt,” it sounds like
they are ungrateful, like they are bitter, like they are being unreasonable and whiny. In reality, though,
I think they were just being honest. As odd as it seems to those of us who have never experienced
slavery, there is a certainty and a safety they experienced in Egypt that they missed in the desert.
If you have worked with kids in the foster system much, you’ve likely observed that most of them want
to go back home. Even if home means not getting fed or bathed regularly. Even if home means getting
yelled at and hit on a daily basis. They just want to go home.
I recently read a fascinating article1 about a prison in Norway that is set up as a village. It’s on an
island, and there are no handcuffs or bars or even locked doors. The male prisoners work and share
meals and have freedom to roam around the island and create a life for themselves. Sounds great,
right? I mean, as far as prisons go.
But Raymond Olsen was not thrilled about being transferred from a maximum security prison to
this little island village. On one of his first days there, he finished his assigned work and could not
figure out what to do for the next hour and a half before roll call. Soon enough, Olsen filled out some
paperwork and then waited for the ferry to come and pick him up. He had requested to be taken back
to the regular prison with barbed wire and bars where he could sit in his cell 23 hours a day.
And I’ve come across another prisoner story lately–probably more apocryphal than factual. The story
goes that years ago there was a general in the Persian Army who had a habit of giving captured spies a
choice about their sentence: They could face the firing squad, or they could face what was behind the
big black door. Nearly all of the captured spies chose the firing squad, not realizing that the menacing
black door led to freedom.
One of the guards asked the general why he gave the prisoners a choice. The general replied, “Almost
everyone chooses death over the unknown. In many ways, people are more afraid to live than they are
to die.”
“Almost everyone chooses death over the unknown.”
Certainly for the Israelites, the slow death of slavery seemed preferable to the parched uncertainty of
the wilderness. They knew the pain and suffering that they had experienced as slaves. And for many
of them, that was to be preferred over this agonizing fear and questioning. Will we be caught? Will
there be enough food? Will we have drinkable water? And, ultimately, “Is God among us or not?”
At the root of the Israelites’ complaining was not an ungrateful spirit; at the core of their grumbling
was not petty self-interest. As their questions reveal, at the heart of their whining is a deep fear. The
people are afraid they will die of thirst in the desert. Moses, in turn, is afraid the people will stone him
to death. Fear pervades the people of God.
It should not be surprising, therefore, to realize that much of God’s word in scripture seeks to calm
our fears. Think of the words of the angels, the songs of the psalmists, the words of Jesus: “Do not be
afraid.” These words echo throughout the scriptures: “Do not be afraid.”
It’s not just that fear is an unpleasant emotion. It’s that fear can compel us to stay in–or return to–
the slavery of the world rather than pushing us to pursue the great unknown of God’s Kingdom. God
repeatedly says–through word and action–“Do not fear,” not merely so that we can be happy, but so
that we can be faithful.
I invite you to take a few moments now and consider what fears loom largest in your life right now.
As you think about your fears, consider whether they are holding you in situations that are not life-
giving. Consider how your fears might be preventing you from moving toward the new birth that God
offers us in Christ.
As I have been thinking about the issue of fear this week, I have also been talking with some of
you about our church space issues. It strikes me that there is a lot of fear here, too. Now I don’t
want to over-dramatize the situation and say that we were in slavery or God is leading us to a new
church building flowing with milk and honey or anything like that. But I do think we are in a bit of a
wilderness time. We know that we have needs that we ourselves cannot meet–like thirsty people who
are desperately looking around for water.
We don’t have the money for the kind of building that will allow us to grow, allow space for our kids,
allow a stronger witness for Christ’s peace and justice in the world. And as we move forward we are
scared because we don’t know where we are going. And we don’t know how we will get there. And
there are many dangers along the way–like internal arguments, like spending too much time and
energy on trivial, worldly issues, like becoming a different kind of church than who God is calling us
to be. . . . I don’t know about you, but I carry some fear about this wilderness place in which we find
ourselves.
Whether we are considering our personal fears or the fears of the community, we first must
acknowledge that the fears–and the threats–are real. Whatever fear is foremost in your life right now,
chances are that it is connected to a real, tangible threat.
The Israelites’ fears of dying of starvation and/or dehydration were legitimate. As they made their way
across the Sinai desert, they were probably stepping over and around the picked-over bones of people
who had died in that wilderness.
In many circumstances, the dangers are real. And our fears are warranted. We can understand the
uncertainty of the Israelites wandering in the wilderness. We can sympathize with their questions: Will
we be caught? Will there be enough food? Will we have drinkable water?
These are valid questions for escaped slaves trekking through the Sinai desert. But we must remember
their ultimate question: “Is God among us or not?” That’s really what it all boils down to: “Is God
among us or not?”
Through the testimony of scripture, through God’s incarnation in Jesus Christ of Nazareth, this is one
question that we who wander in the wilderness today can answer with certainty: “Yes, God is among
us.”
God is among us, working in ways we cannot imagine. This God, who did not ridicule or condemn the
people for their fear, but calmed their fear by providing water from a rock. A rock! If God can provide
for the Israelites’ need for water with a rock, it’s worth taking a look around our own wilderness. Take
a moment and consider: What common objects might God use–at any moment–to calm your fears and
meet your needs?
Water from a rock.
Because God does not want us to stay in the old life. God does not want us to return to the old life.
God wants to lead us forward into new birth. We must make the trek through the desert, knowing
that God is able to calm our fears; God is able to meet our needs. In Christ, God walks through the
wilderness with us, offering living water to quench our deepest thirst.
Thanks be to God.
1 Abé, Nicola. “Prison without Punishment.” The Week. Posted on website March 4, 2011.
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