“Baskets Floating Down the River”
Exodus 1:8 – 2:10
John Bul Dau is one of the “Lost Boys of Sudan,” one of the more than 27,000 boys who were displaced by civil war in Sudan between 1983-2003. At 12 years old, he was torn from his family and village when it was attacked in the middle of the night. He began, in the midst of gun and mortar fire, a 1000 mile trek that is chronicled in his book God grew tired of us (written with our own Mike Sweeney). He tells a story of an episode not too long after he was forced in to leave his village, and it came to mind when I was reflecting on this morning’s message, so I share it with you.
“When we came to a big river covered with apai[1], Abraham and I did exactly as he had said. We crossed the river, picked our apai, and submerged our bodies in the water as we chewed.
Within a minute or two, I heard voices speaking in Arabic. There were gunshots and laughter. I was so scared. My heart beat so loudly I could hear it in my ears. I lay on my back and reached down for the river bottom, grabbing a handful of mud and roots. I pulled gently to lower my shoulders and head under the water. The air in my lungs kept trying to pull me to the surface, but I fought to stay down with just enough of my lips and nose above the water for me to breathe. Abraham did the same.
I could see a bit through the muddy water and the reeds. A squad of Arabs came to the water’s edge only a few yards from where Abraham and I hid. They took off their shoulder packs and set them on the ground. Some of them fired their guns–in the joy of finding good water, I guessed. “Allah akbar!” they shouted. That was one Arabic phrase I knew: God is great.” A few sat and pulled out tobacco for a smoke. Some prayed, kneeling to the East. One man urinated into the water not far from us. Others stripped off their clothes and dived into the water. They were so close I could feel their waves rock me back and forth…” [2]
Can you imagine that? Can you imagine lying there beneath the water? In fear for your life, just lips and nose above the water, just enough to breathe? Right beside the enemy who seeks to take your life?
Personally, I have never been in that kind of danger, so I can only try to imagine. Though I don’t know exactly what it is like, I would guess that the Hebrew people in our bible story did. I imagine, as the suffering and oppression grew heavy, and as soldiers in Pharaoh’s army began knocking on doors looking for newborns, I imagine that they knew very much what it is like to hide in fear, barely able to breath, right beside the enemy who seeks to take your life. It is here that we begin our journey through the story of Exodus.
The challenge with a story such as this is not to jump to the end right away. Many of us have heard the story many times. Most, if not all of us, have seen the movie The Ten Commandments (which, of coarse, is true to the biblical story in every detail-not!). And more profoundly, as a culture we tend not to be very patient. We want speedy answers, quick fixes, clear solutions, and happy endings, so we want to jump right to the end.
The problem with this is that we tend to forget, or gloss over, or give short shrift to the reality of suffering that begins this story.
So I want to pause here, at the beginning of this long story of Exodus, before the burning bush, before the Passover, before the crossing of the Red Sea, to recognize the reality of the misery that starts the whole thing in motion. We forget that at the beginning of this story of redemption and freedom, is the Hebrew people, hiding beneath the water in fear, barely able to breath, right beside the enemy who sought to take their life.
I believe that this is important to hear and remember [the suffering in the story] because it will remind us of the story in those times when we find ourselves in the same situation. Now few of us will face what John Bul Dau, or the Hebrew people faced in their story. But I would guess that that there are many among us gathered here this morning (and there are certainly many outside these doors) who know what it is like to face circumstances that threaten, that test, that sap our strength, expose our weaknesses, that leave us starving, or lost, or alone. Perhaps you can understand the words of the Psalmist who writes:
“Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck.
I sink in deep mire, where there is no foothold; I have come into deep waters, and the flood sweeps over me.
I am weary with my crying; my throat is parched.
My eyes grow dim with waiting for my God.” (Ps 69:1-3)
Have you ever felt like that? Have you experienced the kind of circumstances when you find yourself hiding beneath the water, barely able to breathe, right next to the enemy who seeks your life?
I think it is important to pause here at the beginning of this long story because it reminds us that it this reality of suffering that moves God to act. Later, at the burning bush, the divine voice will say, ““I have observed the misery of my people...; I have heard their cry… I know their sufferings…” and this will move God to act. As we read through Scripture, we find that this discovery reveals something deep about God. We find the theme repeated over and over and over again, that God hears the cry of the wounded, suffering spirit.
I admit the troubling truth of faith that God too often does not act as quickly as we would like. (Remember we like quick solutions.) John Bul Dau made it out of the water that day in Sudan, but it seemed like forever.[3] I imagine Moses’ mother, as she hid her baby from the soldiers, and as she spread the pitch in the basket, was crying to herself, “Where the hell are you God?!” (Please forgive me, but sometimes life requires language like that.)
If you are covered with water this morning, if you are barely able to breathe, it is good that we pause here at the beginning of the story. Your suffering, your struggle, along with the struggle of all the suffering children of God, are what this story (and the story of Scripture as a whole) is all about. God is listening for you. If you are suffering right now, it is good that you are here, because we are all reminded that this is the beginning of the story and not it’s ending.
The story continued back then, and it continues today. Did you know that one of the reasons that we gather together on Sunday mornings is to look for baskets? We are not alone. We join together and we look for the baskets that the story tells us God is even now putting in the water to set us free. In this place, we are like Miriam, Moses’ sister, watching from the riverbank, barely able to breathe as Pharaoh’s daughter takes the baby out of the basket and sets God’s plan of redemption in motion.
We have some baskets here this morning. Little Lola Grace, and little Mae Lynn, celebrating their baptism, are our baskets floating down the river. In baptism God is welcoming them, embracing them, promising to walk with them each step of their journeys. As the water pours over their little heads, they are just like baskets for us, reminding us of our baptisms and the promises that God has made to us. It is a wonderful moment which we await with bated breath.
One more thing: did you notice the heroes in the story? God really hangs in the background for the most part here at the beginning, but the story gives us a number of heroes (who happen to all be women by the way). Think of those midwives for a moment, defying the King. Think of Moses’ mother hiding her child and weaving that basket, and Moses’ sister waiting on the bank and having the presence of mind to step forward at just the right moment with just the right suggestion. Remember Pharaoh’s own daughter who acts with compassion rather than obeying her father’s brutal law.
These heroes, not the powerful ones but the ones with the courage to confront power, serve as an invitation to all of us, an invitation for us, like Moses’ mother, to become basket weavers, to participate in God’s redemptive, life-giving plans for today. We don’t have to wait in fear, powerless in the water. Rise up my friends! There are baskets even now floating down the river for us, and ones waiting to be made, waiting for you and I to make them...if we have the courage to be basket weavers.
August 24, 2008
Rev. Paul Heins
First Presbyterian Church
Logan, Utah
[1] apai is a kind of grass that they would chew when they had no food to eat.
[2] Dau, John Bul, and Michael Sweeney. 2007. God Grew Tired Of Us: A Memoir. National Geographic. pp.62-3.
[3] “A man who must have been their leader arrived at the river’s edge. He was obviously older than the other soldiers, as he had white hair tucked under an officer’s cap he blew a whistle, and everyone stopped what they were doing and ran to stand in front of him. The men began to move out; apparently he had given an order to march. One by one, agonizingly slowly, they filed past us and disappeared.
The whole episode took about an hour. It felt like four to me as I struggled to regulate my breathing and keep my head from bobbing above the surface. When I was sure they had gone, I emerged from the water. Abraham came out too. I shook with pent up fear. We dashed into the forest and felt temporarily safe.” p. 63