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Third Sunday of Lent

Exodus 17
The whole Israelite community set out from the Desert of Sin, traveling from place to place as the Lord commanded. They camped at Rephidim, but there was no water for the people to drink. 2 So they quarreled with Moses and said, “Give us water to drink.”
Moses replied, “Why do you quarrel with me? Why do you put the Lord to the test?”
3 But the people were thirsty for water there, and they grumbled against Moses. They said, “Why did you bring us up out of Egypt to make us and our children and livestock die of thirst?”
4 Then Moses cried out to the Lord, “What am I to do with these people? They are almost ready to stone me.”
5 The Lord answered Moses, “Go out in front of the people. Take with you some of the elders of Israel and take in your hand the staff with which you struck the Nile, and go. 6 I will stand there before you by the rock at Horeb. Strike the rock, and water will come out of it for the people to drink.” So Moses did this in the sight of the elders of Israel. 7 And he called the place Massah[a] and Meribah[b] because the Israelites quarreled and because they tested the Lord saying, “Is the Lord among us or not?”


Forget the cute children, colourful houses, funny and heartwarming place names, and the ads that are filmed on the two or three nice days each summer in Newfoundland.

We’re Ontarians, and we have our own funny and heartwarming place names. Take Tiny, Ontario, as an example, named for Lady Maitland’s dog, Tiny. Or Happyland, near Orillia. How could you fail to be happy in Happyland? Or Bright, or Eden, or Precious Corners? And then there are a series of names that seem to promise something, like Fruitland, Cheeseborough, or even Pickle Lake.

Finally, there are the candid names. Are the people of Sparta, Ontario really tough, or is the place really spartan? Can anything good come from a visit to Pain Court, Ontario? And what about Sour Spring? They’re not really selling it, are they? On one level, you have to admire their honesty—if you travel to Sucker Lake, I think we know how they will take you. It’s in the name.

I share all this because we find ourselves this morning in the naming phase of the Israelite story, where each new episode and each new experience seems to elicit an new name. Some are place names, like the two Jenny shared a moment ago: Massah and Meribah, quarrelling and testing. And are some have an element of fun, like the manna that fell from the sky a chapter earlier. Manna literally means “what is it,” which is something straight out of Abbott & Costello.

“What is it?”
“Yes, please.”
“No, what is it?
“Yes, can you bake some up for me?” (Ex 16.23)

And this, of course, is just one example where some meaning is translated into a name. You will recall that a number of people in the Bible get their names in precisely this fashion:

Exodus 2.10: When the child grew older, she took him to Pharaoh’s daughter and he became her son. She named him Moses, saying, “I drew him out of the water.”
Exodus 2.22: Zipporah gave birth to a son, and Moses named him Gershom, saying, “I have become a foreigner in a foreign land.”

And then there are times when the whole naming thing just gets out of hand, such as the story of Jacob wrestling with God in Genesis 32:

But Jacob replied, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.”
27 The man asked him, “What is your name?”
“Jacob,” he answered.
28 Then the man said, “Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with humans and have overcome.”
30 So Jacob called the place Peniel, saying, “It is because I saw God face to face, and yet my life was spared.”

My friend Wanda is the minister of Peniel United Church, on the Peniel Road, between Cannington and Lindsay. Drop in, if you’re driving by, and say ‘hello.’

So back to Massah and Meribah, quarrelling and testing—a couple of place names in Israel’s unfolding relationship with God. Actually, let’s unpack that a little further: A people whose name means “you have struggled with God and with humans and have overcome” paused in a place called “quarrelling and testing” and asked the rather pointed question, “Is the Lord among us or not?”

I think you see a theme developing here. While the Israelites were wandering and being quite literal in their naming habits, they were also engaged in rather tense relationship with a God determined to save them. From yearning to return to the supposed “fleshpots” of Egypt, to manna each morning, and water from the rock, the pattern is the same: God saves, the people complain, God responds, the people complain, God enacts a little discipline, the people complain, and on it goes.

Complaining seems to the constant here, along with God’s determination to save, provide, chide, and generally endure these creatures God made. You wonder if there is a measure of regret on God’s part, either in creating these ungrateful creatures or making that outrageous rainbow promise that ties God’s hands forever.

But a promise is a promise, and therefore God is stuck with a tribe of people who complain. And while our capacity to complain is constant, our relationship with God is not meant to be static. It was (and is) an unfolding relationship, one where we’re meant to be candid in our prayers and open in our approach. In other words, don’t hold back. The same God with ‘mighty hands’ and an ‘outstretched arm’ also has broad shoulders that can manage whatever complaining we can send God’s way.

“So what’s the point,” you might ask, “perpetuating this cycle of complaining and generally bending the divine ear?” Well, it does a few things. First, it gives us an opportunity to vent, to get things off our chest, to surrender to God our frustration and dis-ease and know that it joins a rather large well of human discontent that God is willing to hold. It begins at Massah and Meribah, the quarrelling and testing that God endures. There’s no anger or regret in the names—not even much irony—just a God who is willing to put up with us for the sake of our well-being.

Next, complaining gives others and opportunity to respond—not to defend God but to offer us perspective. This has to be done with some care, of course, since “c’mon, it can be that bad” is really bad pastoral care. Nevertheless, there are moments when the people around us can answer our complaints, and where appropriate, give voice to a response that God might make.

This came up in our study on Thursday, in a manner of speaking, with the old story of the man in a flood: The flood waters are rising and the man scrambles on to the roof of his house. Someone comes by in an awesome pick-up and the man says “I’m okay here, I have faith and I’m waiting for God to save me.” Next a boat comes by, same answer, “waiting for God to save me.” Then a helicopter that the man refuses to board, and of course he dies and complains bitterly to God about God’s failure to save him. “Hold on,” God says, “ I send an awesome pick-up, a boat, and a helicopter.”

Finally, we complain to God because we’re in a relationship, and in the healthiest relationships there is complaining, truth-telling, feedback—all shared in the most loving way possible. Now, I don’t want to hear some time next week “Well Michael said I could complain about this, so here goes.” Not what I meant.

What I meant (mean) is that the back-and-forth we experience in a healthy relationship, the ability to be candid and still experience love and affection, should extend to our relationship with God. This is, in fact, the basis on all the confessing we do at the beginning of the service: “There were times I doubted you, God, and your ability to forgive even me. But now I see that your love and mercy extends to me, and I can extend this to others.”

Maybe through Lent we should be busy renaming things: the table is now called “quarrelled over dinner but were friends again my dessert,” or renaming my car “foolish man refused to ask for directions.” And following that logic, we could rename all our congregations Peniel: “It is because I saw God face to face, and still my life was saved.”

And as we pass the midpoint of Lent, and the end of the season comes into sight, we remember that even God complained to himself from the cross, asking “why have you forsaken me?” And yet the the answer remains the same—forgive. Now and always, Amen.

posted by michael jacob kooiman @ 6:13 AM