Exodus 17: 1–7; Matthew 21: 23–32

By Revd Geoffrey Clarke, Moderator of URC East Midlands Synod

False promises, quarrels and complaints

Text

From today’s Old Testament reading:

He called the place Massah and Meribah, because the Israelites quarrelled and tested the Lord, saying, ‘Is the Lord among us or not?’

Exodus 17: 7

I am guessing that for many of us Massah and Meribah are not among the best-known of place names in the Bible. At the start of today’s reading we see ‘the whole congregation of the Israelites’ move from the wilderness to set up camp at Rephidim. After the episode in today’s reading from Exodus the place is renamed Massah and Meribah: quarrel and contention. I am guessing that anyone or any place that becomes known for its quarrels and contentiousness would be at pains to change its reputation; working hard to be known for anything other than quarrelsomeness and contentiousness. Such people and places are prone, I’d say, to be given a wide berth by others. After all, who actually chooses, if they can avoid it, to spend time among people and in places where quarrelling, complaining and broken promises feature prominently and frequently? Who genuinely enjoys the company of those who are: contentious, argumentative, prone to moaning, groaning, whingeing, whining …?

One of the aspirations for churches is that they are places where best behaviour – to the point of perfect bliss – is permanently the experience for all who attend: grace-filled living and an attitude of gratitude perfectly modelled by every member. Well – that may be the aspiration, yet the reality is, all too often, quite other. Massah and Meribah – the place of quarrels, complaining and broken promises – are apt names for many a church … many of us … much of the time. So, rather than deny this reality I want, for a few moments this morning, to see what today’s reading from Exodus has to offer us – as a church and as individuals.

1            We end up in Massah and Meribah when we are unhappy with our lot

They camped at Rephidim, but there was no water for the people to drink.

Exodus 17: 1b

In the case of the Israelites their quarrelling and complaining is triggered by not having water to drink.   It’s as simple and basic as that. They are thirsty. And being thirsty, yet not having anything to drink, makes them quarrelsome.

Similarly, when we are hungry – and there isn’t the chance to eat – tempers can become frayed. And it’s so common, so normal, that a word has been added to the dictionary to describe it: Hangry, according to the Cambridge Dictionary, is becoming angry because you are feeling hungry. And there is a medical explanation for being hangry: it’s a biochemical reaction due to low blood sugar – not the same thing as being crabby when you’re tired, sick or otherwise feeling out of sorts.

Sound familiar? Those who camped at Rephidim became, understandably, fixated on their thirst. They were people who professed faith in God, yet their thirst prompts their protests’ their piety is eclipsed by quarrelling. The parched throats of need and desperation cause them to quarrel and complain. Empty buckets strain their patience and their confidence in God’s guidance.   At Cheadle it was the broken boiler and the Sunday congregation feeling cold was the complaint.

And I for one don’t blame them because I recognise all too easily that I can be as guilty as them. When life is tough; when we thirst – for water, for affection, for affirmation, for reassurance, for so much and more – at such times faith can wear thin, patience wears thin and we quarrel and complain. When our suffering – or the suffering of those we love and care for – feels more than we can bear, when we are unhappy with our lot … then, in chorus with the congregation at Rephidim, we can find ourselves saying,

Is the Lord among us or not?

Exodus 17: 7

And at such times we can, all too often, suffer amnesia – not easily able to recall good or better times. This was certainly the case for those camping at Rephidim. The members of Moses’ congregation had been rescued by God – brought out of captivity in Egypt. From suffering in slavery, they had been led out on a journey into the unknown that had the Promised Land as its destination. In the chapter that precedes today’s reading they had known – in the wilderness of Sin –  the miraculous provision of Bread from Heaven. In the chapter before that, in the first steps into the wilderness beyond the parted waves of the Red Sea, at Marah, they lament the bitterness of its water and in response Moses is instructed by God to throw a piece of wood into the water and, in the words of Exodus 15: 25: the water became sweet.

When God provides wood to sweeten the bitterness of life;
when we taste the bread of heaven;
at such times our confidence in God stands a greater chance of holding firm.

But, when the bucket is empty,
when we face the bitterness of life
and heavenly bread is in short supply,
and throats are parched,
and the boiler doesn’t work and church is cold
we are prone to quarrel and complain,

And

2            We end up in Massah and Meribah when we make others unhappy through our complaining

² So they quarrelled 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?’

Exodus 17: 2–3

All too often we ensure that someone, somewhere, is left in no doubt that we are aggrieved, unsatisfied, unimpressed: we complain. And it is in such times, without perhaps meaning to, that we show ourselves up for who we are. Doing our best to trust God, yet unsatisfied; understandably unhappy, but, often, unnecessarily destructive. Poor old Moses – and not for the first or last time – becomes the target for their complaints. His leadership is questioned. And in turn he is hurt and in his hurt he cries out to God:

⁴ Then Moses cried out to the Lord, ‘What am I to do with these people? They are almost ready to stone me.’

Exodus 17: 4

Complaints, much of the time, are directed at someone – someone we deem to be responsible – either for what we are unhappy about, or as the one we expect to put it right, mend it or compensate us.

And, let’s be honest, when we are hangry, out of sorts, fed up or feeling justified in our moaning and groaning, we don’t always stop and think about the effect of our contentiousness on others. And, often, that is because we are so wrapped up in how we are feeling that we overlook – or refuse to consider – the impact on others of our discontent.

In today’s reading Moses embodies the hurt, the strain and the stress of being complained at and blamed for the unhappiness of others. He is held responsible for bringing them out of Egypt and is accused of exposing them to the prospect of destruction and death. I suspect that some of them may have prefaced their complaints with the words, ‘This isn’t personal, but …’ Nevertheless as and when you and I are the ones being so addressed it feels personal and it has a personal impact on our wellbeing.

It doesn’t take much effort, I suspect, to put ourselves in Moses’ shoes. I’m assuming that in Rephidim he’s wearing them as the ground on which the quarrelling takes place is not holy ground like that around the burning bush! Bearing the brunt of others’ complaining, moaning, groaning and whingeing. And, bit by bit, all the weight of endless people’s complaining takes its toll: a sense of dread at the prospect of being in the same space as such people, the assault of angry words and the toxic effect of inhaling the air of discontent. It is, literally, sickening. And it turns Rephidim to Massah and Meribah, the place of prayer and service to the battleground on which we are wounded.

We hope it might be the exception but church is not exempt.   And that really should not surprise us – given that the first twelve disciples quarrelled.  And time and again the New Testament epistles are addressed to situations in which church members are quarrelling and as a result hurting one another.

Yet

3            Even in Massah and Meribah, God is among us

Moses turns to God in his hurt and despair. And God provides. Firstly, Moses is reminded he is not alone and does not have to bear the weight alone:

‘Go out in front of the people. Take with you some of the elders of Israel …

Exodus 17: 5a

When we find ourselves the target of others’ complaining, all too often we can feel alone. Yet, just as Moses is reminded that he has the elders of Israel so, too, time and again we find God among us in and through the company and support of others. Those who stand with us; those who walk with us; those who are astute enough to discern the inner toll of the external assault to which we are exposed. It is not too grand a claim to say that such people are God-with-us, bearing our burdens with us and serving as reminders that the bruising we currently experience will heal.

And, crucially, God is among us even when we have concluded that the present mayhem will be permanent. The Lord said to Moses:

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.

Exodus 17: 6

It could be said that Moses is directed towards one of the least likely of places to find water for the refreshment of his thirsty congregation: Rock! Yet the rock at Horeb becomes the source of God’s blessing for the desperate and needy, those thirsty and hurting.

Most if not all of us can confess to having our own ‘rocks’: places and people from whom we have concluded nothing good or needed will come. All too easily we can fall prey to writing off such places and people. Sometimes, I guess, it is because we have already tried – often but in vain – to draw water but have only ever encountered the rock hard.

In John’s Gospel, after he responds to Jesus’ call to follow him,

⁴⁵ Philip found Nathanael and told him, ‘We have found the one Moses wrote about in the Law, and about whom the prophets also wrote – Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph.’

⁴⁶ ‘Nazareth! Can anything good come from there?’ Nathanael asked.

John 1: 45–46

How often do we conclude that nothing good can come – from there – from them. Jesus’ home village was clearly, in Nathanael’s view, a ‘rock’, written off as a place from which no water could flow. Yet Nazareth is forever associated with goodness and God for those who place their trust the One who was ‘son of Joseph from Nazareth’. That said, Nazareth itself is not, when it comes to notable places, on a par with the great and popular towns and cities of the world.

Massah and Meribah was the place associated with people quarrelling and testing God – the place of parched throats and doubting hearts. The place where people asked:

Is the Lord among us or not?

Yet … it was also the place where, despite their quarrelling and contention, they experienced anew God among them – thirst assuaged, faith renewed. Their God and ours; God among us – offering strength and refreshment, as our Rock, and in the most unlikely of places.

I conclude with Margaret Silf’s retelling of a traditional story:

The Stranger’s Gift

There was once a village that had fallen on very hard times. The villagers had once been very happy, and their community had been famous for its hospitality and friendliness, and the warmth with which it welcomed strangers.

But something had gone wrong in the village. People had begun to bicker with one another. Quarrels broke out for no apparent reason. Rivalry sprang up where once there had been friendship and trust. The chief of the village was very sad about this. He knew that the people would never be happy like this, but he could do nothing to restore the old times of harmony and peace. Strangers no longer wanted to visit the village. The people stopped caring for it. The village was falling into ruin.

But it happened that one day a stranger came by. He approached the village like one with a mission, as though he already knew what he would find there. And very soon, he met the village chief. He recognised the sad expression in his eyes, and the two were soon engaged in a serious conversation.

The village chief told the stranger about his feelings of despair, and his fears that soon the village would disintegrate. The stranger told the village chief that he might know of a way to redeem the lost village, and restore it to real community again.

‘Please tell me the secret,’ the village chief begged the stranger. ‘The secret is very simple,’ the stranger said, by way of reply. ‘The fact is, one of the villagers is actually the Messiah!’

The village chief could hardly believe what he was hearing, yet the stranger had an air of authority about him that was irrefutable.

The stranger left, but the village chief couldn’t resist telling his closest friend what the stranger had told him. Soon the rumour ran through the village like wildfire. ‘One of us is the Messiah! Can you believe it, somewhere, hidden among our number, the Messiah is living!’

Now, deep down, the villagers were a godly folk who wanted things to be right in their community. The thought that the Messiah himself might be living among them, incognito, made them see things very differently. Could it be the baker? they wondered. Or the postman? Or the old lady who breeds the chickens and sells the eggs? Perhaps it was old Granny Riley, whom the children were in the habit of taunting because of her scarred old face. The speculation went on and on.

But the strange thing was that, after the stranger’s visit, things were never the same again. People began to treat each other with reverence. They lived like people who had a common purpose, and who were seeking something very precious together, never quite knowing whether the treasure was actually right in front of them.

Before long, visitors began to come to the village, just to be part of the happy, holy atmosphere that prevailed there. The stranger never came back. He didn’t need to.

Margaret Silf, One Hundred Wisdom Stories from Around the World
 © 2003  Margaret Silf/Lion Hudson.