I remember the first time I heard the story about the Israelites complaining about eating manna, yearning for the fleshpots in Egypt. “How ungrateful” I thought. And I thought that’s what that story was about – not being able appreciate the gifts you’ve been given, yearning for a time that enslaved and limited you. I thought this story was about the human capacity for ingratitude, about a people who had lost sight of their promise.
This year I see the story differently. I now understand the tenderness of this complaint, the longing. I now see what was really going on beneath the surface. They were expressing missing something that they know they could never have again. They were expressing wanting something that they know intellectually they didn’t want to go back to, but still had a yearning in their heart. They wish there would have another alternative – that they didn’t have to choose to uproot their life and travel a long time in the desert.
I see this yearning particularly this time of year, a time that people spend with family. We miss them, we loathe them, we wish we could see them again, we can’t wait to leave. We love them, we wish they would leave already.
This is a time when we know we can’t go back to the way things were, and we’re mostly glad about this, but there is a small part of us that wishes that things could have been different, that things were different, that life would have gone some other way.
Some of us have chosen our family at this point not because we wanted to, but because there didn’t seem to be any other option. Where we came from seemed to offer no real promise, no path for our true becoming, not enough acceptance and support for the kind of growth we needed. And so here we are. We gather close to a holiday before some of us meet with our birth families, some with chosen families, some with families we’ve literally created – or a mix of all three – and we look at where we’ve come from, and we can say “wow, it’s been a long time.” A lot of things have changed, but some things never have. And this is oddly comforting and distressing. We see now how one event has led to another, how things are connected in a way that makes sense but is still not fully satisfying. We wonder if things could have been different, if people could be different, if we could have responded differently.
And after a few seconds of this kind of wondering we’re aware that it doesn’t matter much however we figure it – we’re where we are now, and it’s too late to turn back. The first time I visited New York City as an adult I was with my younger brother Jackson. It was spring time, and we were both young, barely out of our teens. We were staying in lower Manhattan, and we planned to walk to John’s Pizzeria in the West Village to have their legendary pie. Jackson and I didn’t do much research. We didn’t check the weather. We both seem to stubbornly walk out the door with a plan, and when forced to adjust by outside forces, we muscle through or improvise. This is a story where we muscled through. We walk out the door and it begins to snow. Just a few snowflakes – no big deal we think. We’re only a 25 minute walk away. After a half a block the snow begins to pick up, and then the wind begins to cut through us. We’re ill prepared. We’re not wearing heavy jackets, we’re not wearing a hat. I can feel the wind cut through my clothing. We walk another block, and I’m freezing at this point. And I look to my brother, and I say “maybe we should just head back.”
And he mutters under his breath “we can’t turn back now.” We stubbornly braved the elements and our stomachs are growling. We’re hungry. And we’re cold.
As we’re walking with our heads down being blasted by snow that’s coming at our face, I tell my brother “we’re going to remember this.” And I always have. I remember finally getting to the restaurant, and ordering a pizza – waiting another 25 minutes for them to make it. It was the best pizza of my life. Not just because it was well made, but because of all that went into getting there – It was a feast.
Sometimes we volunteer for difficulty and sometimes we experience a break in, something unexpected. Now when I think of the story with my brother, the first thought I have is – we could have got a cab. We didn’t need to walk all that way. And yet in the moment something compelled us. Something compelled a people to write a story about their ancestors picking up and braving the elements, marching toward a promised land for a long time, a time that took everyone away from what they counted on, what they knew. They were compelled to write a story about uncertainty, and perseverance, and promise.
A break in is scary because of its uncertainty. We don’t know if people will be hurt or killed. And we don’t know what will be taken. In the story Molly read, their loss led to compassion – realizing that whoever broke in was suffering and perhaps needed what they had more than they did.
The person who broke in stole sweaters and part of a tent. They forgot or didn’t see the poles. There was a realization that while the woman telling the story felt at home, there was someone out there who was on a journey, still looking, still trying to piece together their home. The woman placed the poles on the sidewalk, doing what she could to help that person piece what they had together, to help them on their path toward home.
Today we officially welcomed 14 new members. And it’s appropriate we’ve prepared a feast for this occasion. And our process of belonging to this church is oddly similar to the story of the Israelites out in the desert. We make no false claims or prescribe a set of beliefs. We affirm that the journey of belonging is an uncertain one – it takes perseverance and yet it is full of promise. Belonging is not something we can give to you, or sell you, or convince you of. It’s a journey you have to take for yourself. And what is the promise we offer?
The promise is embedded in a ritual we do during every church service. We light our chalice, and we put it out. And next Sunday we light it again. The promise we make is that we are here to ignite each other’s light, so that the world may shine a little brighter.
And we understand that the light can go out – we can lose touch with our spark and feel cold and without direction. We can be traveling and try to make sense of what brought us here, and wonder where we’re going. We can be missing a time we know we can’t return to for various reasons, but we lose faith that there is a way forward, we lose faith in the small light within each of us to guide our way home. On those occasions, however numerous they may be throughout your week, your month, your lifetime we promise that there is always a flame waiting for you, specifically for you.
There is a tender longing this time of year whether you feel settled or you feel like you’re going through the same difficulties year after year. It can feel at times that you’ve been traveling a long time, and you just wish you could rest and enjoy. Really enjoy. Not just fake cheer, but enjoying a real sense of belonging. At the end of the day, this sense of belonging depends on a choice. It depends of a choice you make.
It depends on you whether you choose to continue on the path you’re on or try to turn back toward a reality that only exists in memory. Signing your name in the membership book is the easy part. Continuing to find your sense of belonging when people piss you off, when you piss people off, when you wait for the right response and it doesn’t come. Or it does come, but it feels too late. To feed your sense of belonging throughout your life, in this season, takes a good dose of tenderness and more than a little forgiveness. A flame to remind you of your inner fire helps, some beautiful music helps, and when all else fails remember – there is always a feast waiting for you. That’s a promise.
