Readings: Deuteronomy 26:1-11, Romans 10:8b-13, Luke 4:1-13, Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16
I love history, and it has been really bugging me lately, that in the busyness of getting here and doing the work of the present, I haven’t had time to really dig into the early history of St. Clare’s. Linda Klimach gave me a flash drive of scanned documents going back to the 1940s, and there was the cool article about Inez Wisdom that was in Michigan History last fall that someone gave me, and lots more things like that, and they’ve all just been sitting in a pile on the edge of my desk, looking at me, for a couple months.
So when I read the passage this week from Deuteronomy, I was really struck by this statement about history, about the people’s early story together, that Moses is telling the people to make when they bring the first fruits of their harvest to God’s dwelling. They are meant to bring this offering, and say “A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous. When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labor on us, we cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors; the Lord heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression. The Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with a terrifying display of power, and with signs and wonders; and he brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. So now I bring the first of the fruit of the ground that you, O Lord, have given me.”
This statement is probably a lot of things. Those who study it think it might be an early sort of credal statement, and was probably something used every year in prayer, in a religious, liturgical context, when people brought the first fruits of the harvest together to the temple to celebrate and pray together.
But I was struck by how this prayer, this creed, lifted up particular elements of the people’s past journey, how it is a statement of what’s important about their history together, and their journey with God. And it’s not all a glorious mighty history, lifting up the very best and brightest memories. The wandering Aramean could be Abraham or his grandson Jacob. Both were nomadic, both were very human ancestors, who made mistakes and who listened to and trusted God. Jacob even wrestled with God. These words recall the people becoming slaves in Egypt, the hard labor and oppression they endured at the hands of Pharoah. And they recall how God brought God’s people out of that slavery and into a new life together.
As the years went by, and the people prospered, and grew powerful, and had kings and all the trappings of being established- it would have been so important to remember that history. Not just as a gratitude thing, but as a way to stay grounded in what was important, what was essential to their identity and way of life as a people. As a way to remember their relationship with God, who had been faithful to them, who had brought them out of slavery into freedom and given them a new way of life.
This passage goes on to elaborate on what is supposed to happen to these first fruits of the harvest- they are to be shared with outsiders and widows and orphans. Caring for and sharing with those in need, those who are outsiders and perhaps in greater danger of oppression by the dominant group- that’s a crucial practice, and it stems from this religious practice of remembering being oppressed and an outsider. Bringing the first fruits- not the dregs- of your harvest to share- that’s a crucial practice too, for the spiritual and material well being of the giver and the receiver of that sharing, and that stems from remembering that all of this was originally a gift from God.
This practice of remembering continues now, in our day, in 2022. Our Jewish siblings remember this passage each year at Passover, among other times. We have this story too, in our Scripture and our lectionary. Hopefully this story itself has an impact on us as a people still.
As I thought about this passage, I started to wonder about the other stories that tell us where we come from, the stories that come after this era recorded in Deuteronomy, even stories that are pretty recent. What kinds of statements would we come up with, if we were to think about who we come from? What kind of stories are essential for us to remember, as we seek to continue living faithfully?
And so I spent some time this week digging into that early history of St. Clare’s, wondering what there might be to inform our remembering of our journey together. I only made it up to 1958- not very far! Most of you will have more thoughts and knowledge and insight than I will, and I would really love to hear your reflections. But to get us started, here are some of the things I noticed, that made me wonder what this history, this memory means for us as we practice our faith today.
First, Dr. Inez Wisdom and Gertrude Griffith. Wow. What does it mean that we owe our existence, as a congregation, to these strong women, who, with great bravery, committed their lives to healing others, and to living in a committed partnership with each other when that was not a thing that was done? What does it say that the founders of this congregation built their church on the site of their radical and powerful household, that the congregation clearly saw the two of them as leaders and as examples?
And what does it mean for us today that there were so many children here, right from the very beginning, that the church clearly struggled to keep up with the demand for and their high standards for raising them in the faith? I read an urgent call for Church School teachers in one of their early bulletins that said, “A full understanding of the Christian faith is not required, no human being has this!!!” There were several bulletins that went on at great length about how children needed to be included in worship- that you wouldn’t leave a baby out of Christmas celebrations at home, so you wouldn’t leave them out of church. This was way before the 1970s, when the emphasis on understandable liturgy and the ministry of all the baptized became more mainstream ideas in the Episcopal Church. What does it mean that, from the beginning, our congregation has been fully engaged in the imperfect, messy, beautiful work of nurturing the faith of every generation?
And then, what does it mean that right there next to an announcement that everyone should save their Betty Crocker coupons to use to buy forks for coffee hour, there was an invitation to diocesan convention, where there would be an address on Christianity and race by the Rev. Martin Luther King of Alabama? I wonder how knowing that might encourage us to listen to the prophetic voices of today, while they are still known as radicals, before they are rendered acceptable by history?
And what does it mean that, as these ancestors of ours built up this church, they were encouraged to give of their first fruits too? There isn’t much in the bulletins about stewardship until a couple years in, when someone wrote this line: “Since it is a St. Clare’s tradition, you are asked to give more than you are comfortably able to this great cause.” They were brand new, but they already had at least one tradition- to give of themselves, even past the point of comfort, to a great cause. How might knowing that that’s always been a part of the DNA of this place change how we see our potential future today?
And of course, in every decade since then, we have lived into these traditions, these founding stories, and we have brought our own stories and histories and memories along for the ride. We aren’t a monolith here- we weave together our stories, our pasts, into this congregation. I started to think about what my own statement might be, my own prayer, my own creed about the past. Maybe something like: My grandmother was a wandering child of missionaries who started a Bible study in all the towns she lived in and was a proudly untidy pastor’s wife. God has brought me through times of depression and pain through the love of community. Through God’s grace, I have heard enough prophets and teachers who have helped me to turn away, bit by bit, from the forces that make oppression and injustice seem normal, and have helped me begin to learn to work for God’s kingdom of justice. And now I am called to lead a community that was founded on the subversive acceptance of radical love and care, that cares for old and young alike, that has always been trying to dismantle the oppressive systems of racism but that still has a long way to go, a community where people give of themselves, even when it’s hard.
I don’t know, something like that. I think we’re all still learning about what’s essential from our past, what stories we need to remember over and over again because they tell us who we are, and what’s most important, because they shape what we do. Maybe that’s something we’re all called to wrestle with- to lift up the parts that are most essential, that we might be most tempted to forget, so that we can better understand where we come from as we discern how we are moving into the future.
So I wonder, if I might be bold enough in a church with so many teachers and professors, to give you some homework this week: Consider taking some time to dwell on some of those essential, defining stories from your life of faith, and from your ancestors, your family, your community. How do those stories shape who you are today, how you practice your faith now, how God might be calling you in the future? You can ponder that idea in your heart, or maybe even take some time to write it down. If anyone wants to share what they come up with, we can even publish them over the next few weeks. Consider those essential stories that make you who you are, that make us who we are. They may just help you hear an invitation from God for how to share generously, how to live justly, how to continue to follow God’s call in our time, just as our ancestors have done before us.
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