With the warnings about not rebelling like the children of Isreal at Meribah and Massah repeating in the Daily Office, I was caught by the following, words that caught me while I sifted soiled shavings, in the barn by myself. I spoke them into Notes on my phone. I have since listened some more to what the story wants to say. This imagination is in the tradition of Lectio Divinia where you put yourself into Biblical scenes. Doing this has made those stories come alive because they’ve entered my imagination.
Those warnings show up in Psalm 95 that begins with “Oh come, let us sing to the Lord; let us make joyful noise to the rock of our salvation” (Ps 95: 1, ESV). Then it switches to what’s quoted in Hebrews “Today if you hear his voice do not harden your hearts as in the rebellion…where your fathers put me to the test and saw my works for forty years. Therefore, I was provoked with that generation and said, ‘They always go astray in their heart; they have not known my ways.’ As I swore in my wrath ‘They shall not enter my rest’” (Heb. 3: 8 – 11, ESV).
These words call us to trust that God truly is our refuge and help in time of need. They call us to believe Jesus when he says anyone who takes refuge in him, he will in no wise cast out. They call us to trust him even when it appears as though there is no provision.
As I said last week the giants in my land are: how will Bruce and I handle being frail elderly when we have no family or close friends, my short term memory is fizzling and there is the looming sorrow and life change when one of us departs this life. A friend of this page reminded me that if the Lord took care of her, he will take care of me. When these fears rise, I talk them over with the Father and let Him take them. I might sing Psalm 34 that has a line: “I sought the Lord and he heard me and delivered me from all my fears.” And if you said prayers for me, thank you so much.
I Imagine What It Might Be Like to be Moses At the End of his Life
This is written in his voice.
She died. My sister died. My heart was broken and angry. My sister who followed me to the Nile when my mother laid me there in a basket. She spoke up to Pharoah’s daughter about the wet nurse who was my mother. She played with me until it was time to live with the king.
My sister who danced before You, Lord, when we crossed the Red Sea, my sister. She danced as the water lapped over the Pharoah’s army. My cheeks glisten as I remember her tambourine, the women’s tambourines dancing “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider he has thrown into the sea” (Ex 15: 21.)
My sister who mocked my beautiful wife, who shone like ebony in the sun. She and Aaron ganged up, speaking ugly words, saying, “She is not worthy to be your wife, her skin burnt to black. She’s not one of us. God won’t bless your marriage. Divorce her. Hasn’t he spoken through us too?”
My wife wept.
You called us into the tent of meeting. You stood up for me: “With my servant Moses I speak mouth to mouth, clearly and not in riddles.” You thundered, “Why are you not afraid to speak against him?” You made them see me.
Then You zapped Miriam with leprosy, so she was white as snow–a rebuke to her words about my wife’s blackness. I begged You to heal her. How many times do I have to beg You? But You made her stay outside the camp for seven days. And we waited to move until she was healed.
My sister died. My brother won’t be far behind. He’s walking bent and bowed.
I struck the rock. I struck her on her belly, perfect, pregnant round. I struck her twice. I struck her like I was beating my beast. I struck her and water poured out, clear, living water, catching all sunlight.
Your fire billowed, like wind had blown its embers. You whispered, “I said just speak. Just speak to the rock and I will show the people my glory.”
But I struck her. I struck her with all the anger of my people that bitched and moaned to You about water, bitched and moaned about the food that You rained from heaven, bitched and moaned about the giants in the land that You were giving to us, bitched and moaned how they would defeat us because of their size. Despite the fact, the grapes were as big as melons, despite the fact that my assistant Joshua and Caleb said, “The Lord is stronger. Giants would be no trouble to topple.” I cried to my people, “Don’t you believe? You people don’t you believe your eyes, all the wonders these last years?”
But Lord, You said, “No they have to wander forty years, until those who don’t believe, drops in the dessert.” And now You say to me, You say to me, “You can’t go in the land either. You struck the rock. You struck the rock that is my Son. He followed you through the desert. The rock that is the refuge of my people, you struck him. And the rock bled water, the fountain of living water, springing up. The people and the cattle were watered, but you failed to trust me. You failed to hear my word and so I will show you the land from the mountain, but you can’t go in.”
You said, “And the ages to come in the ages to come, the people would be reminded not to test Me, not to test Me not to test Me like at the waters of Meribah, but to trust and to rejoice in Me and to enter into My rest.”
I struck the rock like Balaam struck the donkey and the donkey finally laid down and the donkey spoke and said there’s an angel in the road. Don’t you see? The angel said, “She saved your life and I would’ve killed you and spared her.” But You rebuked me, said You’re done leading the people. You won’t take them to the Promise.
You showed me the mountain.
So many strange things with you God.
The burning bush, that didn’t burn up, and Your name, You gave me your name, and power over You, and a staff that moved, turned into a viper. The burning bush, I saw a woman pregnant with fire, then it was just branches and your voice and the fire.
I laid on my face begging You to forgive my people. My fury billowed and raged when I saw the orgy, the golden calf, the people trapping you in gold. I did not want to lose my wife or Aaron or Miriam. But I buried my face in the dirt and in the stone. Your fire rolling over me. I did not want you to make a people from my loins. Don’t you care what people might think if the people were destroyed in the desert? And You backed down. How can you blame me for striking the rock?
But You stood firm. You said “No, absolutely not, you can’t enter the Promise. You can’t find rest with your people.” You showed me the beauty, the green rolling hills, the bustling towns. The barns filled with crops. The cloud shadows moving like herds over the hills. The sheep moving like wind through tall grasses. What a good place for my people to walk into. I feel content that it’s Joshua leading them there. All those years face to the dust crying for your people. I can sleep now.
Next thing I knew I was standing on Mount Tabor. You were there. A flame of fire. Not a bush. A flame of fire in flesh and bones like mine. And Elijah, who called fire from the sky like he was calling his sheep, and it burned up the sacrifice and stones, Elijah who stepped into a flaming chariot. We were dressed in clothes dazzling as the sun, I know that look, My face used to shine that way, scared the people out of their wits, so I had to wear a veil. I was wearing the light I saw on Sinai, wrapped around me, light. So was the Rock, water gushing out of his side. We sang, “Keep your eyes on the joy set before you.” And the Father spoke to your friends, “This is my beloved son, listen to him,” and they crumpled to the ground. I saw what you did. You healed the boy who threw himself into the fire when you reached the foot of the mountain.
If you’d like to subscribe to these posts head on over to Katie’s Ground.