A devouring fire --The glory of the Lord on the mountain

“To the watching Israelites, the glory of the Lord looked like a
devouring fire on the mountain top. Moses went right into
the cloud and on up the mountain. Moses stayed on the
mountain for forty days and forty nights.” --Exodus 24:17

A devouring fire? What could that mean? And why does the author say that it looked like a devouring fire to those watching? For me, I hear in this at least two meanings that speak to my life. First, there is the fact that “the glory of the Lord” may look to the world like a devouring fire, and our desire to walk toward it may look like foolishness to some and the sight of it may be a fearful stumbling block to others (cf. 1 Corinthians 1:23). The glory of the Lord is not for the faint hearted, one might say. But, if we pay attention to the context of this part of Exodus we know that what looks like a “devouring fire” to the watching Israelites, is --in actuality-- the glory of God. And Moses is not harmed by it. Not a hair of his head.

But, on the other hand, the glory of God truly is –I’m certain-- a devouring fire, though one we should not fear, but should rejoice in. As St. Peter tells us in his first letter, “In this you may rejoice, though, for a time, you must bear all sorts of trials; so that the worth of your faith, more precious than gold, which perishes even if it has been tested by fire, may be proven…” (cf. 1 Peter 1:7).

So what is being devoured when we walk into the glory of the Lord? Into God’s devouring fire? I suspect it is our ego, our pride, our sin –the dross that clings to us. For me, it is –it must be—the “I wants,” that still cling to me and that I too often cling to and clutch at so desperately. I want to be successful. I want to be honored. I want to be loved. I want to be comfortable. I want to be prosperous. I want to be free of sickness. I want a Beck’s Prime veggie burger and a ½ pound of fries with a large Vanilla malted! And a bag of popcorn and a root beer and a new pair of sneakers and cats that don’t tear up the house and a car that never needs repairs and…. And one of those drinks with the little pink umbrellas… and that paddle ball thing, too. I want that, too!

And yet, still, I wonder: what is the devouring fire in my own life? Is it the difficulties I’ve had at work? Loss of autonomy? Changes that feel like trials? Or is it my loss of the diaconate? The humbling trial of being told I wasn’t called to this vocation that I had begun to identify with so intimately… I felt devoured after the meeting when I was told I was being dropped from the program. I felt devoured and spit out. And for almost two years now I have had to humble myself and accept it, and try to hold onto my faith, my love of God, my commitment to His church and to do His will. And it has been hard. It has been painful. It has felt –at times—quite fearful and quite foolish. I have been asked, why I don’t just change religions or join another church? Why don’t I become a Methodist (for instance) and then I can be a minister and have my own church –if I want! And yet, I have remained. I have remained where God has lead me and I wait upon the Lord. I wait within the devouring fire of his glory –trusting that in His glory, I will not be harmed –only tested and made stronger. I am also learning that forty days and forty nights is “God speak” for “this may take a while.”

Ask yourself: what is the devouring fire in your life? Where is God calling you to something hard, to do something painful, something humbling, something that requires you to let go of your wants, your plans, your very self and be more fully dependent on Him? More fully His? Is your devouring fire a troubled relationship that you must humble yourself to mend? Is it a difficulty at work that requires you to let go of some power or some position you worked hard to achieve? Is it a longing for popularity or glory that you can’t let go of? Is there a hurt you must let go of? A disappointment? A loss? A loneliness you cannot fathom?

Do not be afraid to enter into the glory of the Lord, even though it looks to all the world like a devouring fire; as the great poet Jane Kenyon once wrote: God does not leave us comfortless… Whether God calls you up the mountain, or He calls you to come to Him walking on the water –accept His invitation. Go to Him. Do not be afraid. God is waiting; in what looks like a devouring fire, He is waiting just for you.

Pharaoh’s hardened heart: Another look

“[the Egyptians]…whose hearts He turned to hate His own people,

To treat His servants deceitfully…”

--Psalm 105:25

Psalm 105 is a brief history of ancient Israel, with several verses on the exile and Exodus story.  And in it we come again upon this idea of God making someone obstinate or hateful –for some purpose known only to God. In this image from the Psalm we see God paradoxically turning the hearts of Pharaoh and the Egyptians against His own beloved people. In some unspoken way this turning of the enemy's heart to obstinacy and hate and deceit is presented as necessary for the fulfillment of God's plan; it seems somehow essential for the building up of Israel.  God makes Pharaoh’s heart hard and obstinate, against Pharaoh’s own good and the good of the Egyptians. And God does this (it seems) so that Israel’s ultimate victory can somehow be recognized as even more astonishing; more miraculous.  Israel overcomes her foes who are powerful, obstinately bad, persisting in evil, and who  far outnumber her –but who, in the end, are defeated through God’s miraculous intercession.

But I am left pondering: How is the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart necessary to God’s plan?  Even if this is just a myth (or hyperbole), why did the ancient story teller feel it necessary to put it in these terms? What lesson was God imparting by having His scribes write His story in this way?  If (for instance) God’s hardening of Pharaoh’s heart is a metaphor –then what is it a metaphor of? And what lesson (or insight) was it supposed to teach? What psychological (or spiritual) insight was it intended to reveal?

1.       That God is willful and can do whatever He likes?  Even make our hearts hard and turn our ways to deceit? Sin?  -OR

2.       That God’s plan, the work of a loving God, may even be found in the hardened heart and deceitful ways of our foe…

And, in the end, the key question is: What does a loving God accomplish by changing the hearts of Pharaoh, the Egyptians, all of Israel’s foes “so that they hate His own people?” What is it that He accomplishes through this hardened heart that He couldn’t accomplish otherwise? Why didn’t He change their hearts so that they loved His people?  What part does this hardening of the heart play in God’s plan?  How does it reveal His loving presence?  Those are the questions, the paradox, I am pondering these days. 

Next I want to spend a little time considering this passage, this image, through the lens of the four-fold method; seeking in it the four levels of reading: literal, allegorical, moral & anagogical.

  

Reading Dante & Genesis: Intention vs text

“…if He gives me food to eat
 and clothes to wear, and if I come
home safe to my father’s home, then
the Lord shall be my God…” –Genesis 28: 20-21

     What does Jacob’s attitude and behavior tell us about God’s chosen people?  What does it tell us about God?  Why is Jacob/Israel depicted as such a character: a trickster, a skeptic, untrustworthy? Someone who seems to lack faith? Someone who puts God to the test?  Seemingly so unlike his grandfather Abraham?  Was it intentional?  If so, why? Was it a self-portrait on the part of the story-teller? The community?  What did the author intend?  Does it matter?

     Dr. Novo, a dear friend of mine, will sometimes challenge my latest rereadings of Dante with the argument that the text may not mean what I think it means, because my reading doesn’t seem like something Dante would have intended.  And what he means by that is: my reading of the poem doesn’t make sense in a 13^th century Italian context. He is simply asserting the logical proposition that a 13^th century Italian poet probably wouldn’t have meant what I might be proposing, because a 13^th century Italian wouldn’t have thought like that. And often I have to agree with him; sometimes I am imposing my modern ideas on a medieval text. 
     However, what I now realize is that there is a much more important question than the intention of the author. And so, in the case of Dante, though I am interested in the question:  Does it make sense in the context of 13^th century Italy?  I am even more interested in the question: Does it make sense in the context of the text?

     In a famous letter written during his exile, Dante explained that his poem should be read in the four-fold manner used for reading scripture.  Which means that the poem should be read on four levels: literal, allegorical, moral and anagogical. But, another element of how we read scripture is as a document received from God, but through human hands.  We know human hands wrote it, but we trust that the text itself is speaking to us the word of God. Yes, there may be academic theories about sources, and interpolations, and scribal errors, etc. And on a scholarly level those have importance.  However, our ultimate concern isn’t with the writers (or their errors), but the text itself.
     Would the author of Genesis have seen anything wrong on unseemly in Jacob's skeptical acceptance of God? Would the ancient readers have been troubled at all by Jacob's "ifs"?  If God does this... If God lets me arrive safely... if God gives me clothes and enough food...etc.  

     What the author(s) or compilers intended is certainly a question of interest, but what the text says, is a question of actual importance.  For instance, when we read Genesis, we can ask did the author intend to make Jacob a trickster? But more importantly, we should ask what it means that he is one.

    When I read Dante, I approach it in much the same way: I understand that Dante may or may not have intended some things I discover in his poem.  But my main concern isn’t with his 13^th century Italian intentions, but with his poem. Without imposing my 21^st century bias on it, I try to simply ask the text: What do you have to say? And then I ponder, what does that mean?