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| Burning Bush/ Tree of Life quilt made by Janet Rutkowski, 2009. |
"Now, when forty years had passed, an angel appeared to Moses in the wilderness of Mount Sinai, in the flame of a burning bush. When Moses saw it, he was amazed at the sight, and as he approached to look, there came the voice of the Lord. 'I am the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.' Moses began to tremble, and did not dare to look."
~Acts of the Apostles 7:30-32
Throughout Lent I will be blogging passages from the Daily Lectionary, which seeks to take us from Sunday to Sunday with passages from scripture that will resonate with the themes of the season. Today offers an interesting passage. Though the words above are about Moses, they are found in the Acts of the Apostles.
What's going on?
We are dropping in on the passionate sermon of Stephen, one of the first deacons of the church, and, here, about to be the first martyr. Stephen is preaching, recounting the story of scripture as the story of salvation--God being present, seeking to save God's people from bondage.
Stephen reminds us that it has been forty years since Moses fled Egypt and found a quiet life tending flocks with his wife Zipporah and her father, the Midianite priest Jethro. When Moses fled, he was forty years old. So here we have God calling an eighty-year-old into service, someone who, by our contemporary judgement, ought to be permitted to live out his life in peace.
God, as is so often the case, has other ideas.
When Moses saw the bush that burned but wasn't consumed, he was amazed, and turned aside from his flock to see it more closely.
When God's voice came pouring forth from the bush, Moses trembled with fear, and no longer wanted to look.
How human! To be drawn to what is beautiful and marvelous, and to be afraid, and want to step away from what is beyond our understanding.
God is both, always. Which leaves us in a conundrum. We want to draw close to the God whose beauty we can sense or see. We want to warm ourselves in that glow. But the God whose ways confound us--the one who says, "My thoughts are not your thoughts"--repels us, maybe even causes us to flee.
How do we cling to both of these, the God who draws us in and the God who, perhaps, infuriates us? I am hearing a lot about that latter God, in light of the chaos we witness all around us in these very trying times. We can be furious with God for letting it all happen.
Prayer can be a part navigating this puzzle. The psalms are an entire prayer book, right in the middle of our Bibles, and there are plenty--and I mean, plenty--psalms of lament. One of my favorites, one you can memorize it is so short, is Psalm 13.
How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I bear pain in my soul
and have sorrow in my heart all day long?
And that's just the first verse. Tell God you're mad. Tell God you're disappointed. Tell God how you feel about having this illness, or lack or mobility, or the things you read or see in the news. God can take it. Pray angry prayers. Pray frightened prayers. Pray confused prayers. God can take all of them and more. Let the words of your mouth and the meditations of your heart be real, and honest, and true.
And then, remember the beauty that drew you in the first place. Remember the warmth of the God who, scripture tells us, is love. Both/and. God's arms are open to all of you, all of your humanness, and God will be there to hold you through it all.
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