Twenty-Third after Pentecost, 2008

The Children of Israel Marching through the Wilderness, artist unknown

October 19, 2008 XXIII Pentecost (RCL Proper 24a) Exodus 33: 12-23

Fifteen years ago or so the Vestry and people of St. Andrew’s Church were going through the process of preparation for the calling and election of a new rector, and a part of that process, as some of you no doubt remember, was to assemble what is called the “Parish Profile.” That Profile really had two purposes. The first was to try to collate in a series of documents and descriptions and verbal snapshots an overview of the worship and ministry and all the varied activities of the parish, and an assessment of current resources, pledging statistics, budgets, records of reserve funds and endowments and trusts, a review of the physical properties, buildings and grounds. Which is really quite a daunting task, if you think about it. But even more important than that, and perhaps more of a daunting challenge, there was a need in and through this document to convey what you might call the “spirit” of the congregation. Its deeper character, themes of identity, values, goals, hopes and dreams.

And of course St. Andrew’s not a huge place, in terms of congregational size, but as we all know, in 1993 and of still in 2008, a place of much diversity—so many differences of background and perspective. Then and now quite a challenge, because either what you do is oversimplify, reduce, exclude, or you find yourself become so broad and general as to be saying essentially nothing helpful and meaningful at all. Older, younger, traditional, untraditional, liberal, conservative, multi-generational Pittsburghers and recent transplants, Democrats and Republicans, Evangelical, Bible-based spirituality and Catholic sacramental spirituality and a little Zen spirituality, and not much spirituality at all—and old-fashioned and modern, contemplative, action-oriented, white collar and blue collar, urban, suburban. I could just keep doing that all day long, and we’re just talking about three or four hundred people at most, and a lot of them related to each other. Pretty amazing.

So how to get at that? I mean, it sounds like a cross-section of random folks in line at the Giant Eagle, not like a “community,” a church family. And yet here we are, and to say that there is in all this a sense of deeper intuition that there is something—something that makes St. Andrew’s, St. Andrew’s. How to get at that, how to put it into words, and without making some of us feel left out of the definition?

And those of you who were here in 1993 will remember that in the midst of a prayerful and actually pretty-intense conversation about all that, with strategic plans and profiles and all the rest, there emerged a single image which at least at that moment seemed to capture something down deep, and unifying, and clarifying. Not the only image that came up, but the one that got the most traction. The image of the “journey.”

Understanding that the journey is something that is special, unique, private, and personal, for each one of us, as we grow and change, evolve, reform, transform in our own special moment and context of life. Related to our past, our families of origin, the cultures and heritages, the values that have shaped us, and no two of us alike in terms where we’ve been, where we are now, or where we’re headed. And yet also, this sense that the journey is something that we take together. That we’re going somewhere, together.

Many journeys, yet also, inextricably, one journey. The sense of connection, companionship. Not just a random assembly of individuals whose lives accidentally intersect in this physical space, but a people called to be together, to care for one another, to inspire one another, to push and prod and annoy and frustrate one another. To lift up the fallen, to rebuke the backslider, to encourage the faint-hearted. Like a great big family on a long car trip. At any given moment some having a wonderful time, some bored, some wanting to stop now for lunch, some calling out “are we there yet?” The whole experience.

Many journeys, and one journey. And with this sense that as we travel together we need to do so with a spirit of respect for differences. Some go to bed early and get up early, others sleep late, some travel best at night, others are morning people. Some aren’t even sure that this journey is the one they want to be on. Trying our best not to be too frustrated with each other when we don’t quite fit together perfectly. To keep a sense of humor. Cultivating even across all those differences a kind of deeper affection that is sometimes difficult to explain to those outside the family. The one place in the world maybe where Obama people and McCain people are still enjoying each other’s company. If that’s even possible to imagine any more.

In any event, with all this rolling along, and I think also of all the divisions that have just fractured our diocesan family over these past weeks, some parishes so painfully being torn apart—thankfully not so much a part of our experience here. Some strongly felt differences, as you might imagine, given that roster of categories describing who we are, but not the catastrophe we’ve seen some other places. That we have been able to find in ourselves a kind of resilience, a kind of spaciousness, so that the tensions haven’t overwhelmed us. That’s where the grace comes in. The miracle of it all. God’s hand in our midst, which I really believe we have known and felt as a blessing.

It has been very helpful for me, that during these past few weeks in our Sunday lectionary we’ve had this great Biblical image of the journey also before us in the story of the Exodus. This a people who before they went down to Egypt in the time of Jacob and his sons, were not much more than vaguely related clans of nomads and wanderers.

But in this great story, as we have been reading it these weeks, the people who were nomads and wanderers undergo this remarkable transformation. In that common experience of rescue from slavery, the parting of the Sea, the destruction of their enemy; and sustained by miracles: in those moments of starvation, when manna rained down upon them from heaven; in their hour of thirst, when water flowed out of the desert rock; and most of all in that dramatic encounter at the Holy Mountain, when in fire and smoke and so much drama there was a new Covenant, a new relationship, a new identity established. And then in that most horrible back-sliding moment of all, with the Golden Calf. Betraying the one who had given them life and purpose and direction. Somehow, in all that: still, even still, to be God’s “chosen people.”

Soft clay in the hands of the potter, hard granite under the chisel of the sculptor. And then gradually, transformationally, they are not wanderers and nomads anymore, not escaping slaves anymore. God’s people, and on a journey, on his journey, with a purpose and a destination, all of them together, the fast and the slow, the old and the young, wealthy and poor, high and low, all of them together, on the journey to the Promised Land. Off track as they may be from time to time. Not just drifting from one watering hole to the next. On a sacred journey. A quest. With purpose and direction, all of them together. We used some of that imagery in our Adult Education series last year—about how “nomads” become “pilgrims.”

I love this moment in the story, in Exodus 32, up there on the mountain, when Moses says to God, let me see you. Let me see you. I yearn to see your face, to know you, to see your power and glory and beauty and wonder with my own eyes. This deep spiritual yearning. Yearning for reassurance, for inspiration, for illumination. His desire personally, and Moses here speaking on behalf of all the people as well, at the heart of their journey. And speaking for us, on our journey. I yearn to see you, with my own eyes. Your power and glory and beauty and wonder—with my own eyes. And he receives an answer to his prayer. Not exactly what he expected. It never is. And not the end of the story and the fullness of revelation--but a glimpse, a hint, a foretaste.

Which is our privilege as well, here in this place, this gathering of friends, in the life we share and the work we have to do together, in the good times and in the hard times. Sustained along the way by miracles. Manna from heaven, water from the rock. Glimpses of the Father, Christ’s living presence, his Cross, his resurrection, his continuing life among us, in the Bread and Cup, in the Word, in one another, along the way of this journey, all of us together, on our way to the Land of Promise.

Bruce Robison