I preached this sermon at St. Lydia's on Sunday, October 9. The text is Exodus chapter 16; read it here.
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Morning by morning they gathered the manna,
as much as each needed;
but when the sun grew hot,
it melted.
Rachel and I were in Houston this weekend, and it was a great opportunity to see a friend of mine who lives there. His name is Patrick. Some of you know that there’s a group of six people out in the world who pray for St. Lydia’s, many of them every day. And Patrick is one of them. He’s been praying for us for two years now. Every month or so, I send him an update about what’s happening in our community, and ask him to pray for particular needs that we have.
So Patrick received a slightly desperate sounding e-mail just a few days ago when I learned that we needed to move out of Redeemer. In Houston, I sat with my head in my hands telling him about how difficult this time is for us and for me, and he commiserated.
And then he said, (and I swear, he did not know I was preaching on this text this week) “but your community is so much the Israelites in the desert! You say ‘God, we need this,’ and it appears. God’s sent you manna.”
Patrick is right.
The e-mails that I write to that group of folks who pray for us make me more aware than I might be otherwise of the myriad of ways in which God has answered prayers for this community.
Three years ago, before we were even a “we,” Daniel offered us his living room. Months later, Pastor Phil was offering us Trinity’s sanctuary. Last Spring, the Episcopal Diocese offered us the use of one of their church buildings. This Fall, the congregation of Redeemer welcomed us into their midst.
And last week, mere hours after I sent a letter to our community explaining the situation we find ourselves in, Richard left a voicemail on my phone, offering us his apartment, which just happens to be available during the time that we need it most.
Our first year at Trinity, we started off with a budget of $20,000, and a little less than $5,000 in the bank account. Every week Rachel and I watched the balance dwindle, hovering close to zero. And then a check would come. Or a generous person would drop an envelope in the plate.
I told people that first year that St. Lydia’s was teaching me to trust God. That I felt I was walking a path that only ever extended a foot or so in front of me.
So too for the Israelites, who leave their dessert oasis and continue their journey with God. “We’re hungry,” they cry, and God gives them bread and meat. But only enough for today. They must trust that when the sun rises tomorrow, God will feed them again.
It’s a notion that runs counter to everything we’re taught. Think of the story of the grasshopper and the ant. It’s the virtuous ant who works all summer long to store up for the winter. The grasshopper enjoys himself, only to find himself starving when the snow begins to fall.
“Save up!” the story warns us. “Store up now, because there won’t be enough later!”
When the Israelites were in Egypt, Genesis tells us, they built the storehouses for Pharaoh, supported him in hoarding food so that they rich might never fear going hungry. In the wilderness, they are asked not to store up, but to let go.
To trust that God will not let them go hungry.
To gather their food for today,
and let God take care of tomorrow.
Is such faith naive?
Is it to simple,
to unadorned,
to imagine that God will give us all that we need?
And what of those who do not have manna on their plates?
What of those who go hungry?
What of those who complain to God and yet are not fed?
There is notion in yoga
that what we learn on the mat
is connected to our practice in our lives.
The same notion appears in the study of Christian liturgy.
That what we do here,
at these tables,
is practice.
That what we master here
is a rehearsal
for how we live in the world.
Here we feed one another.
Here we remember that there will always be enough.
Here we work together to build something that is beautiful.
Here we approach the edge of chaos,
allowing ourselves to be opened and undone.
Here we creep up on our own discomfort.
We do it not because it is nice,
but because we are so hungry for it.
Hungry to care for one another.
Hungry to love one another.
Hungry to feed one another.
Scholars tell us that the manna the Israelites found in the wilderness is, in fact, a naturally occurring substance that can still be found in the area today: a sweet, flaky sap that collects like dew on the grasses below the tamarind tree.
God is not a magician.
God doesn’t answer prayers with snapped fingers or the flourish of a wand.
God answers prayers through the whole of creation:
bread doesn’t fall from the heavens,
but seeps from the sap of the tamarind tree.
God answers prayers
through the generosity of God’s own people:
Money doesn't rain down from heaven,
but comes slowly and faithfully from those who love us.
A space for St. Lydia’s didn’t rise up from the sidewalk,
but was offered with generosity:
a living room in the financial district.
A sanctuary on the Lower East Side.
A church in Brooklyn.
An apartment on Baltic Street.
We must offer our prayers
like the Israelites offered their complaints.
A cry to a being who has carved out a relationship with us.
Who will not give us magic,
but has promised to never let us go.
We can wake each morning and trust
that though the world lives so often with clenched hands,
there is enough bread to feed us all.
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