Sermon: Eat and Run
Text: Exodus 12:1-14
Date: September 7, 2008
Rev. Dr. Dee Eisenhauer, Eagle Harbor Congregational Church


            My mother’s side of the family got reconstituted in August. We had been scattered all over the northern hemisphere—Alaska, Montana, Wyoming, Washington, Germany—and we met up at Mom’s Montana ranch, about 35 of us, give or take a cousin.

            Before we went, somebody asked Karen and me what we expected to do at our family reunion. I think we came up with this answer at the same time: Eat cake. We weren’t too sure what activities might be planned, but we knew for certain that where the Flodin branch of the family gathers, There Will Be Cake. Sure enough, when we arrived there was a familiar, delicious chocolate sheet cake sitting on the counter, already half eaten by the relatives who had arrived ahead of us. And although our family does to a dessert what locusts do to a cornfield, those assigned to help with the cooking faithfully produced cake after pie after cake so that we were never without.  It’s not that we have cake every day when we go back to our separate homes—we don’t.  But somehow this tradition has become part of who we are when we are together. Curiously, the family makes the cake and the cake helps make the family.
            The scripture reading in Exodus describes a meal that constitutes and reconstitutes the family of Jews from ancient times to the present day. If you were reading the whole book of Exodus, you’d notice when you got here that this very detailed description of the Passover meal interrupts the action packed story of Moses, which began with his infant journey down the Nile River in a basket, went on to tell of his flight from the palace, his encounter with the mysteriously burning bush from which God spoke, and God and Moses’ joint efforts to liberate the Israelites through persuasion and plagues. The story has been moving right along, and then it practically screeches to a halt as God gives directions about getting a lamb, dispatching it, smearing some of its blood on the doorpost, cooking it, and eating it along with bitter herbs and unleavened bread.
            As you read this section you notice that there seems to be a little wrinkle in time. The Passover meal is part of the story of what happened to the people of Israel, a history being recounted about events long ago. Suddenly the story turns into directions for a festival that is to be celebrated throughout all future generations, directions addressed to the current reader. It is a bit jarring, like when an actor in a play who has been living in the world of the story unfolding on stage turns unexpectedly to the audience and speaks to them directly. The Passover story is a story about what happened in the past, but it is also a story that is to be remembered and re-enacted in every Jewish household every year so that it remains part of who they are. A “perpetual ordinance,” as the NRSV translates it. The text says, “Yes, this is about your ancestors in faith; and it’s also about you. Yes, you. The one who is hearing this story right now.”
           The Passover event, as you may know, was the final plague, the plague that broke the Pharoah’s heart and secured his promise to let the Israelite slaves go free. I won’t dwell on the gruesome details; I’ll just remind you that the angel of death passed over the homes of the Israelite slaves whose doors had been marked with the blood of the sacrificial lamb, and death went on to strike the Egyptian captors’ households. It’s not a pretty story, but though it is macabre it is at its core a story of salvation and liberation.
           The reason the Passover became not simply a story but a ritual, an annual re-enactment, was to reconstitute the children of Israel as people who saw themselves as people whom God saved and saves, people whom God liberated and liberates. As they gathered around the table eating lamb and unleavened bread, they were to remember who their ancestors were and who they themselves are, right now, as they chew and swallow the meat, the herbs, the flat bread: people whom God rescued and rescues, people whom God freed and frees. At least once a year in the Passover festival, the family of Jews are reconstituted by this meal. They make the meal and the meal makes them. That’s the idea, anyway.
           It’s fascinating to me that the people who get these directions are told not only what to eat but also what they are to wear and how they are to eat. They should be wearing their traveling clothes and their shoes, with walking stick at the ready. They should eat fast, not as if they were attending some leisurely banquet. This is not the Thanksgiving feast; it’s more like slamming a Hot Pocket while standing at the kitchen sink. Why? They have to be ready to hit the road soon. They even have to have unleavened bread because they can’t wait around for the bread to rise. And these directions are not just about menu and wardrobe, they are about people doing their part. God’s going to save them, but God’s not going to swoop down and pluck them off their couches where they are sitting with their feet up, digesting. They have to be ready to participate in their own liberation by getting ready to travel as soon as Pharoah gives the green light. This is another aspect of being constituted and reconstituted by celebrating Passover—God saves but God’s people move to meet the saving God, God frees but God’s people put their own feet in motion to seek their freedom.
           Now, what does this have to do with us, other than as a matter of historical or theological curiosity about people of another faith tradition? We’re getting ready to celebrate the Lord’s Supper, not Passover.
Without going into a lot of detail that may not be interesting to anyone other than Bible geeks such as myself, I’ll just remind you that Christianity has its roots in Judaism generally, and our celebration of communion is deeply rooted in the Jewish celebration of Passover. It was the Passover meal itself that Jesus was re-interpreting at the Last Supper as he identified the bread with his body and the cup with his blood. The bread and cup were linked to Jesus so powerfully on that occasion that just as there will be cake whenever my far-flung relatives gather, wherever Christians get together, sooner or later, there will be bread and wine. After the death of Jesus, the early Christian community, mostly Jewish in origin, quickly identified Jesus with the sacrificial lamb of Passover and the lamb that ritually received the sins of the Israelites on the Day of Atonement. If you’ve ever been to a very traditional communion service, you’ll remember that the phrase “Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world,” is prominent, usually repeated at least three times. That’s a big clue to the way our communion and the Passover ritual are connected. Ours echoes theirs; it’s like a jazz riff on an earlier musical theme.
           The “wrinkle in time” aspect of Passover is something we must have outright poached from our ancestors in faith, incorporating it into our celebration. After having been scattered about and separated in our own homes and workplaces, we gather at the communion table and we are reconstituted as God’s people. When we get together for communion, we’re remembering long ago events. But we’re also making Jesus real right here, right now. In the scripture stories of communion, Jesus speaks about drinking the cup with them again when the kingdom of God is fulfilled, leaning forward into expectation of God remaking the world. Jesus breaks the bread and says, “Do this in remembrance of me.” Christ looks out from his story directly at the audience—those of us who hear his story. But it’s not just about memory, it’s about becoming. As we eat the bread and drink the cup, we take this symbol into our bodies and become the Body of Christ together. We recall that the Kingdom of God is still taking form among us, and we lean forward into its fulfillment again.
            I just wish our scriptural communion instructions had been as directive as the Passover instructions about what we should wear and the manner in which we should eat this backward-remembering, forward-leaning meal. Remember, they were instructed to wear their traveling clothes, ready to hit the road and follow God’s leadership into freedom. Suppose we Christians had been given wardrobe instructions along with the instruction to do this thing in remembrance of Jesus. What do you think we should wear to the communion table, metaphorically speaking?
           Here’s what not to wear: A friend sent me some pictures recently of high-fashion footwear being sold to Japanese women—several models had 5 or 6 inch heels and had the toes pointed in such a way that all the woman’s weight would be balanced the ends of her toes. Someone looking at the photos connected the cultural dots and found an aged geisha who agreed to have her feet photographed. The tiny decorative shoes she used to wear professionally, about 4 inches long from heel to toe, caused her toes to be permanently bent all the way under her foot in a horribly painful looking contortion. Someone had to help her walk; she couldn’t stand up on those little pin feet on her own. Just another reminder of the ridiculous lengths human beings will go to in order to conform to someone’s idea of beauty.
           We’re not going to examine anyone’s footwear as they come to the table. But speaking symbolically, I think we might agree that you don’t have to squeeze yourself into some beauty mold to be welcome at Christ’s table, especially if it is causing you pain or bodily harm to try to live up to some outward standard of acceptability. God looks at the heart, not at the outward appearance, and every child of God is already beautiful. There’s a certain come-as-you-are aspect to this sacred meal. Leave your tiara and your tailored Italian suit at home along with the cruel shoes; no need to dress to impress here.
           But I’m not sure that communion is exactly a bathrobe-and-slippers kind of occasion, either. Symbolically, we’re not lounging at this table, putting our feet up, feeling like we’ve got all the time in the world to just sit here and chit-chat with the people we love. This isn’t quite like one of those sumptuous family meals where you wear your stretchy pants so that you can stuff yourself on those dishes made from the old family recipes while you reminisce about the good old days. Do you hear what I’m saying? You could say communion should be comfortable, comforting; yet we don’t celebrate communion for its own sake as a sentimental memorial that dead-ends at the last satisfied “Amen.” We celebrate in order to be reconstituted as the people of God, people on the move.
           Seems like some kind of Active Wear would be the best thing, symbolically speaking, to wear to Jesus’ table, because after this meal we’ve got places to go and things to do. There are people here today who will gather at this table acutely aware that they are in need of healing or liberation—their mission is at present to themselves. We may be touched and blessed by the reminder of Jesus’ overwhelming love in this holy meal—but we cannot expect that ritual and worship alone will do all the work of healing. Like the ancient Israelites, we all need to participate in our own liberation, our own healing. We may need to call a therapist, check in to rehab, end an abusive relationship, seek out health care, make an effort towards forgiveness and reconciliation where we have been offended. God offers a mighty arm to help us, but we need to cooperate with the healing work of God, moving to meet God on the journey to wholeness.
           There are others here today who are ready to put on servant’s clothing, Active Wear for God’s labor. Some of us might wear our steel-toed work boots, leaving this table fired up to repair the world. Some of us might wear our good walking shoes, as we get set to accompany a friend on a difficult journey through some crisis. Some of us might wear those strap-on knee pads so as to get on with the task of prayer for those in need of healing and light. Some of us are going to wear those jeans we’re not afraid to get a little dirty or torn as we plunge into trying to clean up some of the messes the human family has created. You get the picture.
           When we gather around the table we are constituted and re-constituted as the people of God. But we don’t just satisfy our hungry hearts here and leave it at that. We need to get up from this table ready to move toward the ongoing fulfillment of the kingdom of God. Ready to hit the road, following the lead of our God who saved our ancestors and is saving us, the God who freed our ancestors and is freeing us, the God who rescued our elders and is rescuing us. Lace up your traveling shoes and go along.