“Who Am I?”
Rev’d. Tanya N. Stormo Rasmussen
The Congregational Church of Hollis, U.C.C.
18 April, 2021
Sermon #2 of 6 in the Holy Habit of Serving Series
Exodus 3:1-18
His name was Eric, and he had grown up in the church and he had raised his own children in that church. So it was no surprise that he felt a sense of proprietorship of the place. He had been the primary liturgist for years—but as far as I could tell, he saw his role as some sort of cross between a standup comedian and Master of Ceremonies, because for my first several weeks as the pastor, despite what was written in the bulletin, he would open the service with a bit of chat and a few jokes, and then say something like, “Okay, Rev, take it away!” as if he had warmed up the crowd for me.
I had been appointed to serve the church by the presiding Bishop. The District Superintendent had explained that, because there were more pastors in search of full-time positions than there were vacant pulpits at the time, all they could offer me was this half-time pastorate. It was clear that neither the congregation nor I were going to think this was a match made in heaven going into it; across the top of the congregation’s profile—the document that spelled out what they felt their strengths and needs were—was printed in bold, block letters and triple underscored: NO WOMEN, PLEASE.
Joel and I were relocating from Illinois back to Massachusetts—another couple strikes against me. We were clearly outsiders. (Someone asked me, several months after I started, “Why did you Midwesterners even come here? Don’t you think you’d have been happier where you came from?”) And some in the congregation didn’t mince words about their disdain for “the educated elites.” I’m sure they loved learning that Joel was working on a Ph.D. at Harvard, of all places.
When I started my ministry with them, I was a 28-year-old mother of a nursing infant; Krister was only a few months old. And Eric seemed nonplussed by that – especially when, one Sunday morning, he discovered me breast-feeding Kit in my office about fifteen minutes before the service was to begin. As we stood at the back of the sanctuary and I offered a brief prayer of preparation, Eric turned to me and said, “You call yourself a minister? Honestly. You need to pull yourself together.” I fought back tears of unnecessary shame and humiliation as we walked down the aisle and somehow led a service of worship together.
One of the gifts I thank God for giving me was a resilient spirit. Someone wrote to me once describing me as “a firebrand, and fierce.” It was intended as a compliment, recognizing that although I don’t love to fight, I also won’t shrink from conflict and I’ll persevere when I know it’s important.
Another of the best gifts God gave me is a lifelong recognition of the power and importance of prayer in my life. I have always relied on my ability to take my concerns, hurts, and confusion to God in prayer; listening and paying attention to my thoughts and the words of others around me (sometimes things I read, or things other people say); constantly alert to what brings me peace and a sense of the right way forward in situations that are troubling.
After that morning, I spent a couple weeks in prayer, asking for wisdom and clarity about how to handle my relationship with that congregation, and with Eric in particular. I wondered whether I had been wrong about my call to be a pastor, after all. I remember lamenting to God (and possibly to the District Superintendent) that if I truly was called to pastoral leadership, this was just not a good fit. I could not comprehend why I had been called and appointed to serve a congregation that clearly despised and mistrusted me for all sorts of reasons. And the message I kept getting in response was that I was where I needed to be—that the church and I both needed each other, for the things we could learn from each other and witheach other. I didn’t like that answer.
But then one morning, I woke up and a tremendous peace had come over me. I had a very clear sense of what I needed to do. After worship that Sunday, I asked Eric whether I could talk to him in my office. I didn’t know exactly what I was going to say, but I remembered what Matthew wrote in Chapter 10, where Jesus warned his disciples that their work would not be easy—that they were being sent into difficult places, and they would be “dragged before rulers and kings to tell them… about [their] faith” (v.18). In Matthew 10:19-20, Jesus says, “But when someone arrests you, don’t worry about what you will say or how you will say it. At that time, you will be given the words to say. But you will not really be the one speaking. The Spirit from your Father will tell you what to say.”
I vividly remember standing in my office, me by my desk and he by the photocopier. Eric said, “Yeah, whaddaya want?” I can’t say I was completely fearless; I was afraid of the ways his words had proved to be sharp as swords, and they could hurt me. But I also recognized that his bravado and his hurtful words came from a place of pain and vulnerability that he was desperate to hide from the rest of the world, including himself.
And I found myself saying, “Eric, I understand that you don’t like me. I don’t really know why, but that’s not the point. What’s important is that we need to find a way to work together. I see that God has given you gifts of leadership in this church, and I’ve been called to be the pastor here. I’m not going anywhere. And you’re not, either. So, you can continue to be hostile toward me, which will make it hard to work together. Or, you can work with me. I’d like to be members of the same team, the same Body, which is what we believe we are as Christians.”
As I heard the words coming out of my mouth, I watched Eric’s eyes grow wide. I saw his fists clench and then unclench. He looked at me and he said with venom dripping from his words, “Pastor, who do you think I am? Who do you think I am? I am not a leader—I scrub f*-*’in’ toilets for a living.”
“Yes,” I heard myself saying, “but God has need of you and your leadership here. And so do I. So will you at least think about it?”
The following week, he came to me in my office and for the first time as he spoke to me there was a gentleness in his voice. “Pastor,” he said, “No one has ever told me they needed me before. But here I am. And I’m ready to serve.”
It was a powerful reversal. Four years later, Eric had proudly completed coursework and training to become a licensed lay preacher. He brought a new dignity and grace to his worship leadership. He and I attended a series of Alban Institute workshops on congregational leadership together, and he played a key role in the discernment process the congregation went through as they courageously decided to close their church and merge with another church community.
Although the Bible is full of such stories (including this morning’s reading), both Eric and I learned some powerful lessons firsthand about how God works with and through unlikely characters to bring about remarkable new beginnings; our own experiences of resurrection.
Like Eric’s story (and my own), the story of Moses’ leadership began with a man who doubted his ability—and maybe even his desire—to lead, much less to be any sort of instrument of God. And yet, there were things about Moses’ character and history that prepared him, better than anyone else, to lead the Israelites to a new, liberated, beginning in God’s name.
There’s this repeating pattern in Scripture and in human life to this day, where a person awakens to a sense of curiosity about something they’ve observed in their world—something that draws them into an awareness of a deeper calling. Of a relationship with the infinite and the holy that they hadn’t fathomed before. Of an expectation that they’re meant to do something more or different with their life—something that serves others and the world, in a way that goes beyond the small sphere of influence they’d previously understood as their domain. Read the Biblical stories—time after time, human beings are called to do things bigger than they think themselves capable of accomplishing, and always they are things that serve to strengthen and liberate others.
As we pay attention to this reality in our own lives (which has always been there, just waiting to be noticed—like the bush that Moses saw burning but not consumed), our most common response is one of fear and doubt. Incredulity, resistance, certainty that we’re not remotely qualified to do anything so big as the vision we glimpse of what we’re called to do.
“Who am I,” Moses responds to the One who created him and gave him his purpose and gifts with which to fulfill it – the One who knew Moses better than Moses dared to know himself – “Who am I to go to the king and lead your people out of Egypt?”
Moses knew that his history was less than squeaky-clean, and like any of us who’d rather not have our regrettable moments paraded as though they define us (as the world loves to do), he would have preferred to fly beneath the radar where life felt safer even if it wasn’t living up to its divinely-intended, God-given potential and purpose.
His is a common refrain from people of faith who seem to fear the possibility that we might fail in our attempt to do something bold. Or, perhaps we fear that what’s being asked of us will require more of us than we feel prepared to sacrifice. Because the world around us keeps hammering away with the falsehood that strengthening, supporting, empowering others results in less power, resources, and security for ourselves.
But time and again, the Bible shows us that that theory of scarcity is just not how God’s economy actually works. Time and again, God’s call is to discover how our power and joy in life is only enhanced when we give it away by serving others, as Moses ultimately did—and as Jesus Christ did in an even more ultimate way.
But in a world where the powers of fear and intimidation are allowed to hold sway; in a world where violence and weapons are embraced as the only possible way to prevail even over the forces of evil; in a world that emphatically preaches the lie that serving ourself is the only way we can certainly attain the fulfillment we desire, it’s easy to see why even people of faith abandon courage and creativity for the path of least resistance. Who wants to go to battle with the boisterous narrative of the world, when to do so invokes the threatening response of hurtful words or actions wielded by those who are invested in worldly versions of power?
What we fail to comprehend or remember, when we fail to respond with courageous faith, is the assurance God gave to Moses as the man expressed his fear. “Who am I to go to the king and lead your people out of Egypt?” Moses asked. “God replied, ‘I will be with you. … I am the eternal God. So tell them that the LORD, whose name is ‘I Am,’ has sent you.” (Exodus 3:12, 14)
The Power that is sovereign over all other powers, the One for whom even death is not an obstacle for resurrecting life, has designed each and every one of us with a purpose. Has endowed us with gifts, and is trying to get our attention. Not necessarily with a burning bush that doesn’t disintegrate, but if like Moses, you pay attention with a spirit of curiosity about what’s going on in your world, and an eye to what your purpose in it might be, you’ll start recognizing the opportunities to serve, strengthen, and transform the world in the name of the Eternal “I Am.”
The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., once suggested that even though we may not be able to do great things, we can all do small things greatly.
Friends, the eternal “I Am” has made you and me—for this world, and for this moment; has endowed each of us with unique gifts; and will use our histories and experiences (the good, the bad, even the regrettable!) to enhance our ability to serve others and thereby discover our deepest sense of purpose and joy. And no matter how extravagant or small our act of serving may be, the Eternal I Am will be with us as we participate in the ongoing story of powerful, unexpected reversals. That is Good News! Thanks be to God! Amen.