Consider the stubborness of Pharaoh

“Pharaoh sent urgently for Moses and Aaron and said:

I have sinned against the Lord your God and against you.

Now forgive my sin, I implore you, just this once, and entreat

The Lord your God to turn this deadly thing away from me.

When Moses left Pharaoh’s presence he prayed to the Lord,

 and the Lord changed the wind into a west wind, very strong,

which carried the locusts away and swept them into the Sea

of Reeds. There was not one locust left in the whole of Egypt.

But the Lord made Pharaoh stubborn, and he did not

let the Israelites go…”  --Exodus 10: 16-20

Boy this Bible reading is kind of tough stuff. I am working my way through Exodus now and coming to the very familiar story of Moses and Pharaoh, I was quite surprised to bump into this verse –a phrase repeated a few times in this story.  What does it mean?  Why would God make Pharaoh “stubborn?”  If, as we are told, God is love –how does making Pharaoh stubborn reveal God’s love?  It is easy to see how it plays out for the Hebrews who receive their freedom and 40 years of wandering.  But consider the stubborn Pharaoh (and all of Egypt); what does he receive? Boils, frogs, locust and the death of his first-born son.  Why does God make the Pharaoh stubborn?

If we assume that God doesn’t literally make Pharaoh stubborn, then we are still left with the question: Why is it in the story? Repeatedly? Starting with God’s assurance to Moses:

“I myself shall make Pharaoh stubborn…” (cf. 7:3)

Even if we assume this is just a story that is trying to explain how the Hebrew people came out of Egypt, we still have to wonder why the ancient author would have chosen to tell it in this way? What is the author telling us about God? And, what is the spiritual or moral lesson that is being imparted?  If Pharaoh is simply an allegorical figure (a symbol of enslavement to sin –for example), we still are left with the fact that God seems to willfully stop Pharaoh from changing his ways.  What does that mean?

To my 21^st century mind, it seems unfair of God to make Pharaoh stubborn. It seems unloving. And so, we might ask, what did it say to the ancient reader? Was there a lesson in Pharaoh’s stubbornness that transcended narrative logic? Or was it a lesson about God’s authority? Was it an assertion that God can make someone do something against their own best interest? Or was it a lesson about how God’s ways are not man’s ways?

I don’t know. But it is perplexing and seems to hold a paradox of some kind at its core. 

If we assume that Holy Scripture is Holy and truly the Word of God then the issue becomes even more complex.  Why would God say such things about Himself?  What is He trying to teach us about Himself and His ways…? And –of course—we may have to ask ourselves whether questions of fairness are meaningful when it comes to God.   And His ways.

It runs in our blood --Jacob & the family trade

“…Joseph recognized his brothers…” –Genesis 42:8

I am still reading Genesis (for a librarian –I am a very slow reader, though there is also the excuse of new kittens in the house).  And, of course, this is the eternal word of God, so what’s the hurry.

Having just reached the story of Joseph, it intrigues me that the “trickster” theme continues in this part of the Jacob narrative.  It is as if the family business were tricking people and we see that “trade” played out again and again in these stories here at the end of Genesis.  First Jacob takes advantage of his brother’s hunger and careless way with words to steal Esau’s birthright, then Rebekah and Jacob trick Isaac into blessing him (masquerading as Esau), then Laban (Jacob’s uncle) tricks Jacob into marrying the wrong daughter (Leah) before giving him (also) the one he was promised (Rachel). Then Jacob tricks Laban and Esau (again), and now we see Jacob’s children employing the family trade in their treatment of each other.  The brothers plot against Joseph –who is carried off to be sold in Egypt-- and then trick their father into thinking he’s been killed by a wild animal. And now, this morning I am reading that Joseph (the sweet and wonderful and miraculously wise and chaste Joseph) is playing tricks on his brothers.  It is as if the family cannot help themselves. It is in their DNA.  Trickering runs in their blood.

When the brothers come to Egypt seeking food (because of the great famine), Joseph recognizes them, but they don’t recognize him and thus begins the great trick that will end with the saving of Israel as Jacob/Israel and all his people move to Egypt to live with Joseph. And, of course, we know how that story ends… Charlton Heston comes to the rescue!

                But, what interests me here is this: what lesson is God teaching us through these stories?  What lesson are we to derive from the story of this trickster family who play a key part in God’s plan?  God seems to dearly love this family that lies and steals and manipulates each other.  And through them He founds His people?  What does that tell us about our relationship to God? And what does it tell us about His relationship to us?  I think this is something I will need to wrestle with for a long time.

The Good Samaritan & the Christmas Card

“A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among robbers, and they stripped him 

and beat him, and went away leaving him half dead.  And by chance a priest was going down on 

that road, and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. Likewise a Levite also, when he came 

to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, who was on a journey, 

came upon him; and when he saw him, he felt compassion, and came to him and bandaged up his 

wounds, pouring oil and wine on them; and he put him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn 

and took care of him. On the next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper and 

said, ‘Take care of him; and whatever more you spend, when I return I will repay you.’

--Luke 10:30-35

(This is a passage from a book I am writing. Fr. Leo is an elderly priest at a small inner-city parish.  And he is on the edge of retirement and some of his parishioners whisper that maybe he should have already retired many years ago. But, he carries on quietly and tenderly and awkwardly loving his flock and trying his best to serve them. He is a minor character in the book, but I was having fun with this homily and wanted to share it. I think it fits in with my meditations so far.)

      Fr. Leo closed the gospel and looked at the red leathered cover with the gold embossing. He touched it; lingered his fingers in the indentation of the cross. Perhaps he should shut up, he thought. Looking at the pews he nodded to himself: Yes. Perhaps I should. He sighed, and began to step away from the ambo. But something occurred to him. And he felt a need to just say this one thing. So, he paused in his reticent retreat and turned back. Opening the Gospel again, he smiled—embarrassed. “I thought about not speaking this morning. The Gospel; the parable itself saying so much. What could I add? Why should I try? But… like most priests, I guess I like to muddy the waters.” He laughed.

Margaret smiled politely. Henry nodded and smiled. There were a few polite snickers.

“Nevertheless, I had to say this, because it’s July and the other day I was thinking about Christmas. Like that old Preston Sturges movie: Christmas in July. I think it starred Dick Powell. And who was the woman? I can’t remember. But I remember Powell. I remember him more from the radio. He played Richard Diamond on the radio: the crooning detective. Oh, the memories that can come haunt you. Don’t you know. And they do. As you get older. Right Margaret? I mean, not that you’re old. Oh dear. Never. Oh dear. I didn’t. Anyway. Anyway. I was thinking about Christmas. In July. Isn’t that strange? It sounds strange. To me, at least. But it all started because I found an old flyer on the side of my refrigerator. For the Knights of Columbus; the Friday Fish Fry. During Lent. I was having lunch in the rectory and while my tomato soup was warming up I thought I would clear off some of the old paperwork taped to the refrigerator. So full. Oh, you wouldn’t believe.” He glanced around the church with a sly smile on his lips. “Of course, none of you know what I’m talking about. Right? You don’t have old notes and flyers and artwork taped to your refrigerator? Do you?”

He smiled and waited.

“Of course not. That’s just us old guys.” He glanced at Margaret, but judging by the look in her eyes he realized he should exempt her from any further references. “Well… So, here it is the middle of summer and I am just now removing the Lenten Fish Fry notice off the refrigerator. But, if you think that’s bad, let me tell you. This is the bad part. Beneath the flyer there was a Christmas card. I guess I forgot about it or I was saving it. Who knows. I’m old.” He laughed. No one else did. Except a polite chuckle from the back. Shaking his head, Father began again:

“Feeling a little foolish, I took it off. It was one of those –you know—one of those inexpensive cards. Not even a Hallmark. But I like Christmas cards. I always have. Even the cheap ones. I like the pictures. I like the sentiments. I guess I’m a sentimental kind of guy. Right?”

He shrugged his shoulders and smiled shyly. “The way my voice is always breaking and I’m always tearing up. You know. You’ve seen it. Sometimes it just comes over me and even I think: Oh dear. Here you go again… you old fool!” He took out a handkerchief. “I’m just going to blow my nose. Allergies. I guess…” He blew his nose with a muffled snort into the cloth and then refolded it and put it back into his pocket.

“So… this card. I don’t want to say it was a cheap card. In case someone is here who sent it. But, I will say it was a budget card. Nothing fancy at all. The front of it was a manger scene with the Joseph and Mary and the baby and a cow and a… maybe a sheep and a star. Mostly blue. Night sky and the glow coming from the baby. You know. Very standard. Very sentimental, I guess. The kind of thing that normally appeals to me. So at first I thought that maybe I just kept the card because I liked it. There was that manger and the straw and Mary and Joseph and that little baby with His hands reaching out. I looked at the picture for a moment, and I thought about Christmas and I thought about that stack of thank you notes I still haven’t written. I think I have until November to send them. Right? Anyway, after looking at the card I dropped it into the recycle bin. But, you know how that goes: after a minute, I had to pick it back up and find out who it was from. Why had I saved it? Maybe it was something important. A special note or something. Sentimental. Maybe.” Again he laughed. Alone. “It was from the Pilgrim Cleaners on Washington. I’ve been taking my suits there for over ten years. So… I don’t know. Maybe it was sentimental.” A few people laughed at that. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders tentatively.

“But, here’s the thing. I’d been thinking about this reading. Preparing for it. The Good Samaritan. And thinking about the –I don’t know—the traditional way of reading it. The way we are used to thinking about it. Augustine. The allegorical reading we all know.” He adjusted his glasses and squinted. Looked down at the opened Gospel on the ambo, then coughed.

“Dear me. Some of you may even be saying to yourself –what’s an allegorical reading. But even if you don’t remember what an allegory is, you know it. Everybody has heard someone preach it. And because it is such a familiar story and such a familiar understanding of the story, we don’t really pay attention anymore. It’s like the power of the parable to challenge us has been tamed. If we can wrap it all up with a bow, like a Christmas fruit cake or something, then there’s nothing in it to challenge us any longer, because –like that Christmas card –it’s become kind of a cliché. Think about it. This parable, how many times have you heard it?”

He paused to let people think for a moment. “Yes. Yes. We know it so well, we are so familiar with it; we don’t really hear it anymore. It’s become safe and settled; like a mathematical equation. This equals this. The Samaritan equals God. The wounded man represents our sinful states. The Levite and the judge equal the religious authorities and the law –or the government. Neither one seems to do very well, I might point out. The donkey becomes the incarnation –the fleshly presence of God in the form of Jesus Christ. The Inn is the Church where sinful man comes to be refreshed and healed with oil and wine –which are the sacraments. You see… It’s all very simple. It’s all very mathematical. Not that I would know anything about math. Right? You should see my check book. Or the parish accounts… No. No. Just joking. Please. Don’t write the Bishop.” 

He laughed. A few polite responses came from the pews.

“But here is what I am trying to say. Here is what I meant to say and then I will sit down and shut up. I took that sentimental card out of the recycling and looked at it, without really thinking about it. It was just your normal, standard baby Jesus and manger with Mary and Joseph there smiling and looking like they just came from the beauty salon. They are gazing down on their new baby with awe and joy. Lots of radiance and glowing and just a hint of a breeze in their freshly washed hair and their perfectly clean robes and scarves. Even the shepherd and the sheep look like they just stepped out of a spa or something. Very Hollywood looking. And I was about to throw it away again when something caught my eye. The naked hand of the baby Jesus reaching out of the manger to His blessed Mother, and for some reason that hand struck me. Even after I put the card back in the trash, I thought about that naked hand and how vulnerable and helpless it was. How helpless and naked and vulnerable all babies are. They need to be cared for –completely. And I thought of Mary and Joseph there, watching over Him. Not the Hallmark card versions or the Hollywood versions, but the real ones. Mary and Joseph. Taking care of Him. Changing His diapers and kissing his boo boos. And thinking about that, thinking about all of that, I started to realize something. I realized something strange that had never occurred to me before; every time we hear this story, you know who we are called to be like: the Samaritan. Right? And yet who did Jesus become? He became the wounded man, naked and helpless and alone in the world. That’s how he came to us. He came to us as that little baby in the manger. He came to us helpless and naked and in need of someone to pick Him up, someone to give Him shelter and to give Him love. Do you see it? Think about that. What does that mean to you personally? What does this parable say to you now? For me, what I learned was that sometimes the gift we bring is our strength and sometimes our gift is our weakness. Sometimes the best gift we have to offer is our weakness, our vulnerability. Our need for help. Because your weakness is a chance for me to step away from my Shredded Wheat and coffee and help you. It’s a chance for me to become the saint God made me to be. So, don’t be afraid to be weak. Don’t be afraid to be vulnerable. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Jesus was weak. Jesus was vulnerable. He even cried out from the cross. The next time you are feeling weak and vulnerable, remember: that may be how God is calling you to become more like Christ. And it could be that God is using your weakness to plant seeds and grow saints in the people around you.

See… that parable isn’t so simple after all, is it. The next time you hear one of these old familiar stories, don’t just nod your head and think: Oh, I know that one. I’ve already heard that one. No. No. No. Ask yourself: what is God trying to say to me, right here, right now? What is God speaking to me? Maybe He’s asking you to be the Samaritan and help someone who is wounded and hurt and needs your care. Or maybe God is asking you to be the vulnerable one who needs help. Maybe He’s asking you to be carry the cross, or maybe God is asking you to be an opportunity for someone else to carry His cross; And maybe God is telling you that to become like Christ, to become Christ for others… all that is being asked is that you become like that man on the road to Jerusalem or like that baby in that manger on that card: weak and vulnerable, in need of help –naked to the world. Reach out your hand in need and see what happens. You know. Even if no one helps you, you don’t know. You won’t know. You can’t know how much you may have helped them. Maybe even the memory of seeing you so vulnerable, so willing to ask for help… That simple memory may haunt them –in a good way. And maybe that’s how God planted His seed in their heart. Memories. Christmas cards. And weakness. I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know. That’s all."