sermons — Page 21 — Andy James

A World Turned Upside Down

April 20, 2014 By Andy James

a sermon on Matthew 28:1-10 for Easter Sunday
preached on April 20, 2014, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone

It all began as a quiet trip to visit a friend’s grave, but before long, their whole world was turned upside down. Mary and Mary Magdalene were still trying to figure out what had happened to their friend Jesus—how the loud praises of the crowd on Sunday had turned to cries of “crucify him” on Friday, how the religious officials who had always pushed him a bit suddenly turned on him, how even his disciples abandoned him as he was unjustly accused, convicted, and sent to the cross. But before that reality could even really set in, everything changed—and I mean everything.

As Mary and Mary Magdalene journeyed to Jesus’ tomb early on that Sunday morning, their world was turned upside down. These women left behind a world, where, as preacher Tom Long puts it so well, “hope is in constant danger, and might makes right, and peace has little chance, and the rich get richer, and the weak all eventually suffer under some Pontius Pilate or another, and people hatch murderous plots, and dead people stay dead, and they entered the startling and breathtaking world of resurrection and life. Jesus of Nazareth, who had been dead as a doornail on Friday afternoon, was not in his tomb that morning, and the world—theirs and ours—has been turned upside down ever since.” (Matthew, p. 322)

Easter, you see, is ultimately a story of our world getting turned upside down. If the old maxim is correct and there are only two things certain in this world, death and taxes, then Easter brings it down to just one! This is simultaneously wonderful and scary. On Easter, we can rejoice because death has been defeated, because the one thing that would seem to separate us from God is no longer in the way, because the injustice, the pain, the hostility, and the danger of this world have all been overcome once and for all. But on Easter, we also see that the old ways of the world, the ways we are used to, the ways that seem normal to us, are no longer in place. We can’t count on the dead to stay dead, on our merits to be the basis of our salvation, on the injustice we perpetuate to be ignored, or even on war to bring us peace. Resurrection turns our world upside down. As Tom Long puts it, “The wonderful news of Easter is that Jesus is alive, and the terrible news of Easter is also that Jesus is alive, because nothing is nailed down anymore.” (Matthew, p. 323)

Once the women at the tomb realized that everything had been turned upside down, that the earthquake that had shaken them on their way there had shattered their whole world, they had to sort out what all this meant for them and what they were to do from there. It was surely not an easy task. They had already been struggling to sort out what life without Jesus would mean for them, and the empty tomb confused things all the more. Thankfully the angel that met them at the tomb helped them out a bit. His instructions were clear and direct, and his presence, though startling, was comforting.

First, he told them, “Do not be afraid.” The world may have been shifting, and death may not have meant what they thought it did when they woke up that morning, but the angel made it clear that they should set aside their fears and trust that God was doing something new and different and wonderful right before their very eyes, raising Jesus from the dead and conquering death once and for all.

Then he gave them further instruction: “Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, ‘He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.’” The angel gives them a mission and purpose: to bear witness to the emptiness of the empty tomb, to share the good news of the resurrection with the disciples, and to carry this word of new life with them on the journey back to the familiar territory of Galilee as they began to sort out what it meant to live in the reality of the resurrection each and every day.

We face a similar challenge every time we hear the proclamation of the resurrection. “The grave is empty, Christ is risen,” we proclaim so boldly—but what does that mean? “Jesus Christ is risen today,” we sing—but how will we be different tomorrow? The world may be turned upside down, but it is so easy to pretend like it isn’t. It is easy to stick to the things we have known, to make the choices that we have made before, to reinforce the old way of doing things and simply be safe and stay comfortable, to put ourselves first and set aside any concern for the other that might come from this new world.

But the angel who meets us at the tomb insists that things are different, that we set our minds on the things that are above, as Paul described it, that we choose paths that lead to the abundance of life for all and not just a few, that we seek hope and justice and peace for ourselves and others and all creation, that we join in all that God is doing in our world to make everything new. The world has been turned upside down, and now we must set aside death and embrace God’s new life, announcing to all who will hear, in our words and even more in our deeds, all the good news that is before us: that the grave is empty and Christ is risen, that the light shines in the darkness and the darkness can never put it out, that while once we were no people, now we are God’s people, and that nothing, not even life or death, can separate us from God’s love in Jesus Christ our risen Lord.

Just as everything was turned upside down for the women on that first Easter morning, the resurrection keeps turning our world upside down. It demands that we join in making all things new, that we stop staring into the graves of our lives and start looking for something more than what we have seen before. It demands that we set out on the road from the tomb and start looking for Jesus.

Over the last year, I haven’t had to look far for signs of these things, for this very place has been filled with signs of resurrection. Less than a year ago, we heard a report from our congregational consultant who took a hard and honest look at the realities facing us: a small and aging congregation, a challenging neighborhood setting for the type of ministry we are poised to offer, and a financial situation that had us living well beyond our means. He ended his report to us with a glimpse of resurrection, though: “Most importantly,” he said, “I believe you have the maturity and faith to bring to birth a new thing in this corner of God’s kingdom.”

Over the last year, against all odds, something new has begun to be born here. We have been turned upside down by the wonder of resurrection and new life. We have welcomed new people to our community and opened our doors wider than ever before. We have found new possibility and promise in a shift to a part-time pastor. And we have watched as God has started working in us and through us and in spite of us to bring us to new life. Things have been turned upside down for us—many of the things that were draining us are now filling us, many of the frustrations that we faced are now being replaced with joy, many of the challenges that were before us are now becoming possibilities—because God has opened the way of resurrection for us here and now.

Like any story of resurrection on this earth, this rebirth is not complete. We still have work to do to deepen our mission, strengthen our life together, and reach out into our community—to embody the resurrection life of Christ in our midst—and there moments when it is a little scary because we have never been here before, but there are signs of new life here that I for one could not see a year ago. God has turned our world upside down, and for that I am deeply grateful.

So as we set out on the resurrection road ahead, with our world turned upside down and death transformed into resurrection life, may God show us the way from the tomb to new life, the places where we can meet Jesus along the journey, starting right here at table together, and the possibilities to join in the amazing work of making all things new because of the resurrection of Jesus Christ our Lord that keeps turning our whole world upside down today on this Easter Day and every day.

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed. Alleluia! Amen.

Reflections on Palms and Passion

April 13, 2014 By Andy James

This Sunday’s sermon is a bit different, as it is broken into two related but distinct parts that address the two different foci of this day, Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem and his procession toward death just days later.

A Royal Procession

a reflection on Matthew 21:1-11

Palm Sunday just doesn’t feel right without a procession: palm branches waved by a joyful congregation, children leading the way into the church, and a familiar hymn marking the day and the way as we remember Jesus’ journey from the countryside into the city. This strange reenactment of Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem is quite likely the closest any of us will ever get to a royal procession.

Our observance is always marked with this grand and glorious language of kingship, seemingly celebrating the arrival of a new king, but this is quite unlike any other royal procession. Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem takes every element of a royal procession and turns it upside down. Every symbol that is supposed to make the ruler have proper status and position is shifted entirely. The royal carriage or white horse is replaced with a simple donkey and colt. The royal guards and advance crew that precede every king are replaced with a couple disciples dispatched to borrow the donkey and colt from an unsuspecting owner. The beautiful fabrics that would celebrate the arrival of most royalty are nowhere to be found, so some cloaks and tree branches have to do. And even the crowd that gathered wasn’t prepared to welcome a king, so they too offer their cloaks and start cutting branches off the trees beside the road to prepare the way for this strange man from the countryside to enter the city.

As much as we might try to make the story of Palm Sunday seem like so many other royal processions, as much as we might try to put Jesus into the role of a traditional and mighty king, everything about this day and this man insists that we look at it differently. This Jesus is no ordinary king. He entered Jerusalem prepared to do battle not by wielding a mighty army and strong weapons but by offering a proclamation of new life. He didn’t offer a quick fix through great displays of power but through the transformational wonder of justice and peace. And he invited everyone who dared to step into this new and different kingdom, where pain and war are no more, where iniquity is pardoned, where liberation is real and all things are made new.

Did the crowd know all this? Did they take it seriously? Had they heard Jesus’ words for what they were—a real and direct challenge to the patterns of the status quo, true “fighting words” against the powers of religion and politics of the day, the proclamation of a different kind of king who sought not power for himself or privilege for a few but new life for all? Did they really understand that their cries of “Hosanna!” were for one who would confront their realities and drive them to a new and different way?

Better yet, do we know all this? Are we prepared to set aside our preference for ourselves and show others the way to new life? Are we prepared to give up something of what we have so that others also might live in hope? Are we prepared to put down the weapons of war and take up the path of peace? Are we prepared to join this kind of royal procession and turn the world upside down? May God give us the strength to commit ourselves to this new and different path, not just on this Palm Sunday but each and every day as we walk this holy road with Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Not Just Any Other King

a reflection on Matthew 27:11-54

There’s something truly incredible about this story. It is of course the story that stands at the center of the Christian gospel message, that a man lived, died, and rose again to show us the depth and breadth of God’s love. But when you get down to it, you have to admit that there is something peculiar about it all. Even setting aside the reasonable questions about why this is necessary and why God might choose to do this at all, it’s very much fair to wonder why would God use a man from a small town in the backwaters of the Roman empire to bring about salvation for the whole world. Even more strangely, why would God work in and through a man who was condemned and executed by one of the most powerful empires in the history of the world? It’s nothing short of scandalous that God would choose to make this story the one that matters for us—but we are ultimately confronted with two millennia of witnesses who have made this exact claim, who have been convinced by Jesus’ life, ministry, death, resurrection, ascension, and continuing presence that this man embodied the fullness of the sign that was so mockingly hung on the cross: “This is Jesus, the King of the Jews.”

And ultimately all these have proclaimed that this title means that he was not just any other king—by extension, these claim, as King of the Jews, Jesus brought a new and different way of life into the world, inaugurating a different kind of kingdom that fit his humble roots, living out the fullness of his teaching of justice, peace, and new life, showing his care and concern for all people and especially the poor and outcast, insisting that there is a different and better way of life and living for all people, even us, and ultimately triumphing over any and all evil that might try to get in his way.

Just as the story of the royal processional on that first Palm Sunday insists that we look at Jesus differently, the death of Jesus demands that we take a new and careful look at our world and Jesus’ place in it. It insists that we set aside our attempts to make Jesus look just like us, to fit him perfectly into the boxes we try to make for him, to explain his presence and his meaning with simple and seemingly timeless words and metaphors, to limit his gift of grace, mercy, and peace to those whom we might like to have share it, to demand that everyone agree on one way of understanding what he brings to our lives and our world. The execution of Jesus of Nazareth at the hands of the religious and political authorities of first-century Palestine insists that God is working beyond all our human assumptions to do something new and different and radical in our world, to shatter our expectations of glorious salvation through power, privilege, and prestige, to overturn the systems that promote injustice and hurt, to be present with us in the midst of our darkest hours just as God was present in the horrific and unjust death of Jesus. And the crucifixion of Christ insists that our relationship with God is different now, that we are forever changed as individuals and as a community because God has experienced the fullness of human life, including death itself, and overcome it all, that we will ultimately be judged by none other than our redeemer himself, and that nothing in life or in death, in heaven or on earth, can separate us from the fullness of God’s love in Jesus Christ our Lord.

So as we make this journey of Holy Week, as we relive again this story of the passion, death, and resurrection of our Living Lord, may Jesus be more than any other king to us—may we welcome his reign of peace and justice and new life as it takes hold around us in the most unexpected ways and we join in making it real each and every day until he comes again to make all things new. Lord, come quickly! Amen.

The Stories That Define Us: Dry Bones and New Life

April 6, 2014 By Andy James

a sermon on Ezekiel 37:1-14 and Psalm 130
preached on April 6, 2014, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone

One of the biggest adjustments for this southern boy living in New York is not the snow or the cold but the extended season of gray that results from a longer winter. This winter’s grays are worse than usual. Spring may have technically begun two weeks ago, but the grays just haven’t gone away yet. The snow that just wouldn’t go away made everything so blah for so long, and the charcoal color of it after weeks of below-freezing temperatures just made it miserable to look out the window for days on end. And now that the snow has melted, we see all the gunk that got piled up on the ground over the past few months: the cigarette butts so well hidden in the snow but now standing out against the gray dirt and brown grass, the litter strewn here there and everywhere by the winds of winter, abandoned gloves and hats just waiting to be reunited with their mates and owners, and the dead grass that reminds us of the winter that seemed like it would never end. By contrast, in the South, by now most trees have their leaves back, the days are consistently warmer, and flowers have burst into bloom everywhere. Now there is much that I have come to love about the seasons of New York, not the least of which is the beautiful fall colors that are simply without compare down South, but when the buds are barely on the trees by Easter even when it is as late as it is this year, this southern boy feels like he’s been stuck in the valley of dry bones for six months!

Our reading from the prophet Ezekiel this morning about that valley of dry bones is another one of those stories that defines us. Like the story of Abraham, it is immortalized in a song that keeps it more vivid in our minds than it might otherwise be. Even so, this is a little different from the other stories that we have considered that define us. This is a vision of God’s intentions for the world, not so much a real and immediate depiction of a historical moment and figure, yet it is no less a real and true depiction of how God is at work around us and through us and in us and no less a faithful reflection on what God promises to make real for us and our world.

When in a vision the prophet Ezekiel found himself in this strange valley of very dry bones, he knew that God was up to something. God started things out by asking Ezekiel a question that only God could answer: “Mortal, can these bones live?” Ezekiel rightfully turned the question back on God, who then commanded him to prophesy to the bones:

O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord.
Thus says the Lord God to these bones:
I will cause breath to enter you,
and you shall live.
I will lay sinews on you,
and will cause flesh to come upon you
and cover you with skin,
and put breath in you,
and you shall live;
and you shall know that I am the Lord.

Then as Ezekiel spoke out across the dry bones, into the gray darkness of the valley, “suddenly there was a noise, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone.” As Ezekiel spoke, the valley of dry bones was transformed by the sights and sounds of life, with bones rattling together and sinews and flesh and skin suddenly appearing on these old, dry bones—but they still weren’t alive. It seems that those bones weren’t just lacking the outer skin of life—they were lacking the inner life that would make them flourish, the breath that would fill them and make them live. So God spoke to Ezekiel and told him to prophesy once again, this time to the wind, the spirit, the breath of life:

Thus says the Lord God:
Come from the four winds, O breath,
and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.

The wind, the spirit, the breath of life came upon these bones, these sinews, this flesh, this skin, these bodies—and they lived. Then God made this vision clear to Ezekiel. These bones were not just any bones but the bones of the people of God, seemingly dead and dry after a long exile and countless attacks from every quarter, ready to be lifted up to new life and shown the path to something new. This valley was not just some place where too many went to die but instead will be the cradle of new life. And these bodies restored to new life will not just be a bunch of automatons set in motion as an automated army but a blessing of God to all the nations because of the spirit, the wind, the breath that blows within them.

So what does this story of dry bones mean for us today? At one level, it seems pretty morbid—and it is. This is a story of death, after all. There were lots and lots of bones in that valley, and they were very dry, very dead. But here God promises that death is only the beginning of the story. Erin Wathen puts it very well:

Death doesn’t ruin the story.
It doesn’t steal the joy of love found or moments shared.
It just creates a new kind of beginning,
the potential to start a new chapter and learn life-giving lessons from some new trip, or relationship, or set-back.

Before the bones can rattle back together, before the sinews and flesh and skin can reappear, before the spirit can breathe life into these bodies, the bones have to be very dry and very dead. Before the spring can emerge with meaning, before the buds can sprout forth in beauty, before new life can take hold, the gray and dreary days of winter must be real. And before we can know the deep and real gift of God’s love, before we can experience the reality of forgiveness, before we can emerge from the depths of pain and hurt, we must experience the separation and frustration of sin.

But all this talk of death is only the beginning, for it helps to make the possibility of new life all the more real. It gives us new sight to see signs of new life even in the midst of the longest winter. It gives us hope for new breath to enter the lifeless bodies around us. And it gives us the promise that death may be a part of our story but will certainly not be the end of it. This story—and so our story, too—does not end with dead, dry bones but with living, breathing bodies filled with new life. Our story does not end with an empty valley but with women and men of all times and places filled with God’s Spirit and made ready to go forth to live out God’s mission in the world. And our story does not end with the gray darkness of winter but with spring taking hold all around us, with flowers bursting into bloom, trees budding with new life, and warm sunlight shining into the dark places of our hearts and lives.

So all the stories that define us—and especially this one—ultimately not only look back on the past but look ahead to the future, reminding us that God has made things new over and over again and promises to do the same with us, too. The stories that define us tell us that the gray days of even the longest winters will eventually be displaced with the burst of color in spring. And the stories that define us assure us that God will not only hear our cries out of the depths but will guide us from all our darkness into the bright light of the new day.

The other day, as I was struggling with these words and wondering when this gray and dreary winter would finally give way to new life, I left the church to take some mail to the post office. On my way out of the church, at the top of the basement stairs, I was greeted with a surprise: the first flowers of spring. At the end of this crazy and full week, even as we still wait for spring to burst forth into its fullness, the first flowers of spring reminded me that there is hope for something new, that God is even now making all things new.

So as we await the fullness of the resurrection, may the words of the psalmist inspire us anew:

O [people of God], hope in the Lord!
For with the Lord there is steadfast love,
and with [God] is great power to redeem.

May the breath, the wind, the Spirit of new life blow into us so that we too might be made new as we await the fullness of the resurrection promised in Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Stories That Define Us: David

March 30, 2014 By Andy James

a sermon on 1 Samuel 16:1-13 and Psalm 23
preached on March 30, 2014, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone

It’s not all that unusual in this world to have friends and colleagues who share the same name. I have two good friends named Nate, and although they come from very different circles of my life, more than once some of my other friends have gotten them mixed up when I am talking about them! I’ve seen these kind of shared names in other places, too. A month or so ago, I visited the First Presbyterian Church in Jamaica, Queens, and met two of their staff who are working with Superstorm Sandy relief. Both are named Dora! But easily the strangest situation comes when I write an email to my friend Andy and the opening and closing names are identical!

Still, by far the most common single name in my address book is David. I looked it up last night—I have three Bettys, five Bills, five Brians (with two different spellings), four Jameses (not counting all the family who have that last name), seven Johns, four Sams—and nine Davids. This is really no surprise, since David is such an important name in the Bible and looms large in the Old Testament.

After a tumultuous start to his reign that required him to violently displace his predecessor Saul, David’s reign was remembered for being one of the more peaceful eras in the history of Israel, and it saw the beginning of substantial territorial growth than continued under his son Solomon. He was also known for his work as a poet and musician, strongly influencing the songs of the people of Israel even though we have no evidence that he actually wrote any of the psalms that are attributed to him through superscriptions in our Bible that were added much later. The memory of his reign over Israel towers over every page after his death. So often the stories of other kings and rulers and the laments of exile seem to say, “If only there were another king like David, we would be better off.” And the expectation of a Messiah to stand as a new king in the line of David is at the center of the Christian understanding of Jesus and his relationship to the people of Israel. In the end, David is a mighty figure—mightier even than the frequency of the name David in my address book!—who factors prominently into the story of Israel that defines us even today.

Yet the beginning of David’s story would not leave you expecting him to be such a major player. Our reading from 1 Samuel this morning makes it clear that nobody in his family thought that that David was all that important to them. It never even crossed their minds that he would be important enough to be a reasonable candidate to be king! When the prophet Samuel followed God’s instructions and went to select the new king from the sons of Jesse the Bethlehemite, Jesse didn’t even bring in David to meet Samuel. Now God had made it clear early on in that search that this decision should not have been based on the standards of the world, for when Eliab, the oldest, came in, Samuel had immediately figured he would be the best fit only to find God make it clear that the choice was not to be based on appearance, height, or any outward human characteristic.

But Samuel didn’t quite learn God’s lesson quickly enough here. He too did not expect David, the youngest son, the one left out in the fields to tend the flock of sheep, the one that could so easily be forgotten or overlooked, to be God’s choice. All human measures would have shown him to be the last possible son of Jesse to be the next king. But after all the other sons of Jesse had come before Samuel and none were chosen, David finally got called in to be considered by Samuel for this new position. Now the narrator seems to have missed something of what God had said earlier, for as soon as David appeared he tells us that David “was ruddy, and had beautiful eyes, and was handsome,” but in the end, that didn’t matter. God had looked on David’s heart and found it to be right and good, and so the Lord instructed Samuel to anoint David as king of Israel.

There was of course much, much more to David’s story that helps define who he is and why he is important to us in our own story of faith. Beyond the stories that I mentioned earlier, many look to his adultery with Bathsheba and his subsequent coverup that put her husband Uriah on the front lines of battle to be killed as a mark of our deep sinfulness, especially if we think of the words of Psalm 51 as David’s confession:

Have mercy on me, O God,
according to your steadfast love;
according to your abundant mercy
blot out my transgressions.

Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,
and cleanse me from my sin.
For I know my transgressions,
and my sin is ever before me.

Others remember the tale of the boy David’s defeat of the warrior Goliath with only a slingshot and five smooth stones as a mark of how God uses the small to overpower the weak. And still others look to the bond between David and his dear friend Jonathan for an image of holy friendship that can inform the relationships of our world and our lives today. But ultimately I think David’s story defines us not so much because of its importance in the life of Israel or the way that informs our understanding of Jesus but rather because it shows us yet again how God consistently looks beyond all the standards and expectations of our world and calls the forgotten, the overlooked, and the outsider to be bearers of the message of God’s love and faithfulness.

This is the same image of God that is portrayed so beautifully for us in the beloved words of Psalm 23. While so many images of God depict a mighty and powerful and dignified divine ruler, the image of God as a shepherd puts a very different spin on things. This psalm shows us a God who is willing to get down and dirty with us in the messiness of our lives: to show us places of comfort and care amidst pain and hurt, to guide us when we go astray, to walk with us through dark valleys, to offer us grace and mercy beyond our wildest dreams, and to give us a home worth dwelling in all our days. This God is willing and able to shepherd us and all of the forgotten, overlooked, and left-out people of the world “beyond our wants, beyond our fears, from death into life.” Just as God turns David’s life upside-down, from being the youngest son left out in the fields to being anointed as king of Israel, God flips all our images of a mighty and distant and powerful “Lord” and instead shows us this kind of present and gentle and humble shepherd.

This is the strange kind of God who is around us and before us and beside us—a Lord who is our shepherd, a powerful, mighty, and omnipotent God who cares so deeply about us that, as the Heidelberg Catechism says, “not a hair can fall from head without the will of my Father in heaven,” a God who chooses a leader who is not the one most likely to fit the standards of the world but who is most fit for the work and challenge ahead. And so God steps into our world and into our lives, insisting that we like David can step up beyond our limitations, calling the forgotten, the overlooked, and the outsider to act beyond our seeming limitations and do mighty and wonderful things, demanding that we join in the transformation of our world that comes as the lowly are given power and authority to step up and speak out and as the unexpected gifts of our lives are transformed by God’s grace, mercy, and power to be instruments of peace, justice, reconciliation, and new creation.

So may David’s story of being chosen despite all his weaknesses and limitations continue to define us as we trust God’s shepherding grace and love, seek God’s presence among us in those whom we might otherwise overlook or leave out, and look upon the hearts of others and ourselves to find the the hope and vision to embody something new as all things are made new in Jesus Christ our Lord. Thanks be to God! Amen.

The Stories That Define Us: Moses

March 23, 2014 By Andy James

a sermon on Exodus 3:1-15
preached on March 23, 2014, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone

As we spend these forty days of Lent preparing for Easter, our Jewish friends and family are also getting ready for the holy celebration of Passover. Although they have different celebrations and preparations, these seasons share common roots. Jesus was tried and executed in Jerusalem during Passover celebrations, and from the earliest days of the church Easter has been viewed as the Christian Passover, for just as in the first Passover the Lord let the firstborn children of Israel live while the other firstborn in Egypt were killed, on Easter God again conquered death in the resurrection of Jesus.

So as we share this time of holy reflection and celebration, it is good and right that we look at the stories that define us all, not just remembering these things of the past but sorting out their relevance and meaning in our lives today.Today we turn to the figure who stands behind the Passover, Moses, and think about how his story continues to impact us and define us even now.

Our reading this morning from the book of Exodus takes us to a pivotal moment in his life, when God appeared to him in a burning bush and instructed him to lead the Israelites out of Egypt. Moses began his life in Egypt as the son of Hebrew slaves. He had been facing death along with all other male Hebrew infants born in his time, but Pharaoh’s daughter rescued him as a baby from a basket floating in the reeds and raised him in the household of the Pharaoh. He grew to be a strong and powerful man in the court of Egypt, but he fled this position for the safety of Midian after he killed an Egyptian who had mistreated a Hebrew slave.

After many years, as mistreatment of the Israelites deepened, our story today tells us how God appeared to Moses in this strange bush that “was blazing, yet… was not consumed.” God then spoke to Moses, instructing him to remove his sandals and recognize that this was holy ground. Once Moses understood who he was talking to, God told him of the plan to free the Israelites from their Egyptian oppressors:

I have observed the misery of my people who are in Egypt;
   I have heard their cry on account of their taskmasters.
Indeed, I know their sufferings,
   and I have come down to deliver them from the Egyptians,
   and to bring them up out of that land to a good and broad land,
   a land flowing with milk and honey.…
So come, I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt.

Moses was understandably skeptical. He asked God quite directly, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” Even when God assured him that he nor the Israelites would be alone on the journey, even when God promised that they would worship God together on that very mountain, Moses was just not so sure about all this. He turned again to God with more questions: “If I come to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your ancestors has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is his name?’ what shall I say to them?”

God responded with quite possibly the most important and yet the most confusing response in the entire Bible:

I Am Who I Am.
Thus you shall say to the Israelites,
‘I Am has sent me to you.’

Apparently that confusing bit of revelation was enough to convince Moses to make this trip, to put things on the line, to leave his new homeland and go back to Egypt to lead his people to the promised land.

The story of Moses continues well beyond these verses, as Moses returned to Egypt, declared God’s word of freedom to Pharaoh, gathered the confidence of the Israelites, led them out of Egypt and into the wilderness, engaged with God on their behalf, received the law to guide them, dealt with their disputes and frustrations, and took them to the edge of the Jordan River as they prepared to receive the fullness of God’s promise there.

Amidst all this, the center of this story that defines us is God’s revelation to Moses. While God had revealed God’s self to others before this, Moses’ encounter with God in the burning-but-not-consumed bush tells us more about God than we have known before. We learn here of God’s insistence upon justice and willingness to stand up for the people of Israel. We learn of God’s willingness not just to send someone on a journey but to go along too. And we learn God’s very strange but very informative name.

This name is easily the most important thing revealed about God in Moses’ encounter at the burning bush. God declared so clearly,

This is my name forever,
and this my title for all generations.

This name is quite unlikely any other name. In Hebrew, it is spelled YHWH, and we might say it as “Yahweh,” though an observant Jew would never pronounce such a holy name. Anytime an observant Jew sees these letters in a reading, she replaces it with another name for God, “Adonai.” We translate it as “Lord,” and it is always printed with those small capital letters so that you can immediately know that this is the most holy name of the most holy God. But in literal terms, this name means exactly what we heard: “I Am Who I Am,” or “I Will Be Who I Will Be,” as it says in a footnote in nearly every Bible.

In sharing this name here, God revealed to Moses—and to us—the very essence and core of God’s being. “I Am Who I Am,” God says—insisting that God’s way is the only way, telling us that God does what God does, demonstrating from this early place in God’s story with God’s people that God is sovereign and supreme. “I Will Be Who I Will Be,” God says—if “I Am” is not enough to make it clear, hearing this in the future tense shows us that this is not the end of this story, that God will not leave Moses or the Israelites alone as they make this journey out of Egypt, that God will continue to go with God’s people in all the days to come.

Alongside this holy name and its holy meaning, the revelation of God to Moses also shows us God’s insistence on justice for God’s people. In calling to Moses to go to Egypt and proclaim freedom for the people of Israel, God makes it clear that oppression will not have the final word. God saw the misery, injustice, and suffering that they faced and proclaimed,

I have heard their cry on account of their taskmasters.…
I have come down to deliver them from the Egyptians,
and to bring them up out of that land to a good and broad land,
a land flowing with milk and honey.”

In sending Moses to Egypt, God responds to these cries of the oppressed—and makes it clear that God hears the cries of all who are oppressed and so will consistently call God’s people to a new and different way of freedom and new life. By responding to this injustice in this way, God not only condemns those who would perpetuate suffering but insists that God will actively work to end oppression and call God’s people through the centuries to join in this work.

So this story about Moses not only shows us who God is but also gives us a glimpse of God’s call to us. We like Moses have glimpsed God, perhaps not in a bush that burns but is not consumed but in actions against injustice and for peace, in the wonder of nature and the joy of life, and most of all in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. So with our own revelation of God, we like Moses are called to go and embody God’s freedom, justice, and new life in the midst of the oppression and misery of our world.

We do not go on this journey alone. Women and men like Moses go before us to remind us that God’s presence goes with us every step of the way. And others also go beside us now, lifting up the story of Moses to show us God’s insistence on the end of oppression and the rise of freedom and encouraging all who desire justice and peace for all people to join these ranks. But as much as we might like to leave this journey to other, God’s revelation to Moses and to us shows us that each of us must go and join in the cry to “let my people go,” to work to transform the brokenness and injustice around us into new life, to stand up and step in for those who cannot speak for themselves, to proclaim the day of the Lord’s favor for all creation. We do this not to further our own agenda, to promote a way of life for a select few, to gain freedom for others that looks exactly like the freedom we enjoy, or even to convince others of God’s presence, but we always seek to embody God’s love more deeply and broadly than it has been before as we live in peace and hope to build up all people along the way.

So may this story of God’s revelation to Moses strengthen us to join in the work of justice and peace so that all people might know the fullness of life that comes from this God who is who God is and will be who God will be now and always. Thanks be to God. Amen.