Mystic Congregational Church, UCC

Mystic, Connecticut

Sermon from February 27, 2005

“Holy Thirst”

Rev. Thomas Ratmeyer

Scriptures:

Exodus 17:1-7

John 4:5-30

Thirst comes before theology; if not in the alphabet, then in life.  When you have gone for days through the wilderness with only the few drops of water that you can steal from the morning dew, just enough to tease you into even greater thirst; when your tongue is thick and your throat is filled with dust; and when the threat of death is a more urgent reality than your longing for a life in freedom, then it’s hard to trust in the presence and providing grace of God.

So the Israelites were wailing as they were setting one foot in front of the other, through the sandstorms and the blinding, burning sun during the day.  They were wailing still as they huddled together for shelter against the cold of a desert night.  Moses suffered the same onslaught of heat and sand during the day, and bone-chilling cold at night.  His tongue was thick as well and, yet, his thoughts this particular night at Rephidim were not concerned with the needs of his body.  Instead, he thought back to the time when he was tending sheep on Mt. Horeb.  There, he had seen the burning bush that wasn’t consumed by the flames, and he heard the voice of I AM, and he and the world had never been the same again.

On this night at Rephidim, as on most nights, Moses’ place of rest was just a few feet away from some of his most trusted elders, and within eyesight and earshot of his people, the Israelites.  Their wailing and shouts of complaints were always in his ears.  Was he blessed or cursed to be the one who knew of the presence of God who, ever since that first encounter, could tell that God was near, that God was walking in front of them? 

He would have liked to get up and shout at the people, reminding them that God had just days before provided manna—bread that rained from heaven—when they had been sure to be dying of hunger.  Before, at Marah, where they had found water too bitter to drink, God had made it sweet.  When they were sure that the Egyptians would destroy them with their might, having followed them to the shore of the sea, God had, through Moses, pushed back the sea and allowed them passage, only to have those same waters destroy the enemy on their heels.  God was present.  The God who had brought them out of Egypt was present with them on the desert journey.

But Moses didn’t stand up and shout.  It would not have done much good.  More likely, it would have caused a riot, and a riot might have quite likely turned directly against him.

Moses directed his attention back to the people and the voices he heard all through the night.  The words were the same as they had been each previous time, “Why did you bring us out of Egypt, only to kill us and our children and our livestock here in the desert?”

“Why do you quarrel with me?” he said, more to himself than to anyone in particular.  “Why do you test the Lord?”  But Moses had a question for God as well.  He stood up and walked further away, as some of his elders looked on.  They saw no need to tell him about the complaints, for he had already heard them himself.  They were eager to know his thoughts; they sensed his trepidation.  But there would be time for words in the morning.  He would consult them, for he trusted their advise, and they trusted his vision and his faith.

Moses fell on his knees and cried to the God he knew was there, “What shall I do with these people?  They are about ready to stone me.”  “You put me in this place,” he might also have said.  “I trust that you will save your people.  But how will I serve you if I am dead?”  God’s response is the revelation of what is the next thing to do, no more and no less:    “Go on ahead of the people, and take some of the elders of Israel with you; take in your hand the staff that I gave you with which you struck the Nile, and go.  I will be standing there in front of you on the rock at Horeb.  Strike the rock, and water will come out of it so that the people may drink.”  So Moses got up from his knees, approached the elders, and motioned for them to come with him.  Some of the Israelites close to them saw their getting up.  When they saw them moving toward a rock, they followed.  Moses took the staff that God had put in his hands before.  When he touched the rock, God made the water come out for the people to drink.

Thirst comes before theology.  I believe that we all know of a thirst that water cannot quench.  We know of an emptiness inside that possessions cannot fill, not even relationships; rather, the other way around—that, even in our relationships, we will know of an emptiness until we each find a way to fill it, and then meet each other as whole persons.

What are we thirsting for?  We have a need to be known—for the whole of who we are—and a need to be recognized and accepted as such.  For many, Psalm 139 is a powerful statement about our relationship with God, because it invokes a God who knows us better than we know ourselves.  All the while, we are taught from early on which parts of ourselves are acceptable to which audience, and in which social situation.  Church used to require our Sunday selves, inside and out, whereas the clothes in which we most felt like ourselves may have been an old pair of jeans with holes from wearing them much beyond the point that Mom thought acceptable, and a t-shirt the colors of which had long faded in the wash.

For some, dinner conversations had prescribed themes such as the inevitable, “How was school today?” and “Let me quiz you on state capitals.”  With most people, including co-workers and distant relatives, you just don’t talk politics and religion, and, of course, matters of sex—in other words, all the things that, at their core, touch on who you are. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I believe in a dress code and in social conventions.  Both have to do with respect and consideration for other people.  But there is a danger if we always feel that we have to be “composed,” that there are parts of us that never see the light of day, let alone find acceptance.  Yet, we seek to be known and accepted, deep inside, with the same urge with which we seek to find out who we are in the first place as we grow up.

We thirst as a congregation, in more than one way.  Our individual longing for a gracious God becomes our collective need for comfort, for an assurance from the familiar words of liturgy and scripture, and for the reliable structure of liturgy and worship.  Sunday becomes a safe haven from a world that may seem not so safe anymore.

We also thirst for justice, righteousness, and peace in the midst of a world that knows little about any of them.  We challenge the ways of the world, for we know of a promised land, a new heaven, and a new earth where there is no more violence and no more injustice, and we see glimpses of that new reality wherever there are people of faith.

Both of those needs—a need to find comfort in the Gospel, and a need to challenge the world with that same Gospel—always exist next to each other.  Both of them are always present in the pews.  If we were only looking for the comfort in the familiar, we would ultimately just worship ourselves, rather than the God who brought God’s people out of exile.

But if we only ever challenged the world without the promise of God’s love in our hearts, we would get lost in a wilderness of thorns, dying of thirst for we would not know where to go for living water and saving grace.  We sometimes forget that we come to church with a variety of needs.  At any given time, some come for comfort, and some come for challenge, and that is alright.

The story of the Israelites’ journey from exile through the wilderness is not only a story about thirst.  It’s a commentary on leadership as well.  Moses leads his people as one who knows God is present, and remembers at all times the whole history of God and God’s people.  Even in the moment of crisis, he remembers that God has saved them before.  In other words, he is a man of faith.

But that is not enough:  God makes a point in the story to ask Moses to bring his elders along.  Moses leads by facilitating the leadership of others around him.  He can lead because he can trust their advice and wisdom, and they can trust his vision and faith.  He is never alone.

We are different from the Israelites only in that we, as a congregation, make our journey to the promised land along a familiar path of the liturgical year.  We know that Holy Week this year, as every year, will culminate in our Easter celebration.  Yet, each year, each liturgical season, we bring to this journey a new yearning that what we say and do may be relevant.  We bring a holy thirst that our lives may have meaning and purpose.  We bring a need for the loving and affirming grace of God in Jesus Christ. 

May this grace of God be with you.  Amen.