So, the Children of God have been wandering in the Wilderness for quite some time. Led by Moses, they have escaped slavery in Egypt, crossed through the middle of the Red Sea, been led to Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments, seen miracle after miracle. They have been in the very presence of God.
And still they are not satisfied. “We don't have enough food! We don't have enough water! And the food that we have, well, it's not what we actually want. And frankly, it's kind of weird.
Never mind that God brings water from rocks when the people are in need. Never mind that the food they are complaining about is manna. Never mind that that manna is sent by God every single day. Never mind that it is their daily bread, provided by their Lord. Food from heaven. A sign, not only of God's power but of God's love!
But they are not satisfied. The Children of God are put out with God. Things are not working out the way they had thought when they signed onto this. They didn't read the fine print, it seems. And they are miserable. Enter the snakes!
Now as stories go, this is a really weird turn of events. It's as if the Israelites are complaining about some minor things (boring food and water), And Boom! Snakes!”
We've all been here. We've all been in the presence of poisonous snakes. People who slither up behind you and whisper in your ear. People who coil around your brain and sow doubt. People who poison your soul with negativity and sourness.
“You know that's never going to work.” “Well, you DID kinda bring it on yourself.” “If only you had been more faithful.” “There's nothing you can do about it, so you might as well take it.” “If you loved me, you'd...” “This is all your fault!” “I hate you.” “Go back to where you came from.” “They are taking your job.” “They are your enemy.”
These serpents, all over, dens of them. Making us sick, sick in our hearts, sick in our souls. In some ways, I guess it's the human predicament. We are so rarely satisfied. We always want more, or at least what other people have. I suppose that's just who we are. But sometimes it makes us sick. And we need healing. We need to be set right. We know what we should do, we can say it together: love God, and love your neighbor. But sometimes we need help doing it.
The problem is, sometimes God sends help in the weirdest way. A bronze serpent on a pole? Really, just look there and be healed? Lord, couldn't you have sent Doctors Without Borders? I mean, that's what I was kinda expecting?
A backwater, scraggly dude teaching love? Sure he performed miracles, but not enough for all of us. And, let's admit, things didn't end all that well. Hanging there on that cross.
A tiny little wafer? A sip of wine? Given what's going on in the world, what possible good will that do? When our brokenness is so severe that it nearly kills our soul, how can this thing we do, this thing we believe, possibly work?
Fr. Brooks did a funeral once of a husband and father that died. Much like any other. But later the family told him what happened after his role was done. The family was grieving and somewhat adrift. At a loss as to what to do next. They were wounded, broken, grieving. Wondering why God would do such a thing. And the members of that parish did exactly what parishioners of churches all around the world would do in their place: they brought food. Casseroles. Casseroles as far as the eye could see. 9” x 13” dishes filled with everything you could imagine. Filling up the freezer. Filling up the fridge. Filling up the basement freezer. One after another, like manna falling out of the sky. To the point that the family didn't know what to do.
And the kitchen was getting filled with leftovers. The sink was overflowing with dishes. People kept coming by. The family couldn't catch up, and every surface was covered with food and then garbage. And in their state, that grieving family was overwhelmed.
But there was one neighbor. He didn't make casseroles. He simply came over and said, “Look, I know what your going through. And I know this is weird, but, until you are back on your feet, I'd like to come over and clean your kitchen and take out your garbage. I'll just come over once a day, you'll hardly even know I'm there. Just clean the kitchen, take out the garbage, then go back home.
And he did. Day by day, he did, until the wife, the widow, finally said, “Thank you, but I think it's time for me to get back to doing it for myself.” Then she asked if she could pay her neighbor. He shook his head and said no. He just wanted to do it to help. “Can't I give you anything?” she asked. “Well,” he said, smiling, “I wouldn't mind having one of those frozen lasagnas.” And the woman laughed. Maybe for the first time in a long time.
The gift of a clean kitchen. It was, indeed, weird. And it was, indeed, a healing miracle.
The path to healing often unfolds by weird, inexplicable turns, as the snakebitten people of Israel discovered. This makes some kind of sense, I think. Because the brokenness that comes to us can take such strange forms – grief, illness, accident, or any of the other ways that life can unexpectedly and senselessly clobber us. Likewise, healing can take strange forms, too.
And I'm always amazed at how those strange remedies show up in our lives – the angels in our lives that visit, the unexpected encounters that bring comfort, the offers of solace and healing that don’t always make sense and might not fit for someone else but are just what my heart most needs.
Strange remedies. At this place in our Lenten journey I'm wondering. How do I keep my eyes and heart open for the healing that Christ brings, often in such unexpected ways? Is there a place of brokenness I am living with that might need the strange healing of a painful cross? Am I willing to take a step toward wholeness that might not make sense to others but helps open me to the healing God desires?
Are any of us?