Deuteronomy 26:1-11
Although I love to preach from the Old Testament (or Hebrew Scriptures), I don’t usually do it during Lent. After all, Lent is about Jesus’ journey toward the cross. But I believe this scripture has some important things to say about our journey.
Let me start with a quick background reminder. The book of Deuteronomy purports to be a series of sermons, speeches, or instructions delivered by Moses on the last day of his life, to the Israelites as they were poised at the Jordan River, ready to enter the Promised Land. Much of the book is focused on: “1) the covenant that God has established with the Israelites in the wilderness; 2) the laws of that covenant, and 3) the emphatic necessity of obedience to those laws as the condition for enjoying the benefits of the covenant.”[1] Today’s reading is about one of those laws.
Please join me in the Prayer for Illumination as printed in your bulletin: Open our hearts and minds, O Lord, by the gift of your Holy Spirit, so that as the word is read and proclaimed we may hear what you have to say to us today. Amen.
Deuteronomy 26:1-11
When you have come into the land that the Lord your God is giving you as an inheritance to possess, and you possess it, and settle in it, you shall take some of the first of all the fruit of the ground, which you harvest from the land that the Lord your God is giving you, and you shall put it in a basket and go to the place that the Lord your God will choose as a dwelling for his name. You shall go to the priest who is in office at that time, and say to him, ‘Today I declare to the Lord your God that I have come into the land that the Lord swore to our ancestors to give us.’ When the priest takes the basket from your hand and sets it down before the altar of the Lord your God, you shall make this response before the Lord your God: ‘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 labour 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.’ You shall set it down before the Lord your God and bow down before the Lord your God. Then you, together with the Levites and the aliens who reside among you, shall celebrate with all the bounty that the Lord your God has given to you and to your house.
Obviously, we have here instructions about bringing the first fruit of the harvest in thanksgiving. But it is not simply in thanksgiving for the harvest. It is in thanksgiving for what God has done in the past, God’s profound actions on behalf of the people. The words they are to say when they bring the offering—the liturgy, if you will—makes this clear. It speaks of “the saving actions of God, reaching back through the story of the ancestors: their initial homelessness (‘A wandering Aramean was my father’); their migration to Egypt (‘lived there as an alien’); their suffering there (‘treated us harshly and afflicted us’); their cry to God for redemption (‘we cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors’); their redemption out of enslavement (‘the Lord brought us out of Egypt’); [and finally] their settling into a fertile land (‘flowing with milk and honey’).”[2] This liturgy names a lot of suffering, and it doesn’t even mention the forty years wandering in the wilderness.
Jewish scholars point out something important here. To Jewish people, God’s covenant with the people “is not an agreement made in the past. Instead, time collapses so that each member of the Jewish people has seemingly lived through all the formative experiences of the nation. Throughout the generations, each person who brings the offering of the first fruits declares, ‘The Egyptians treated us badly and afflicted us … we called out to God and God heard our voices … God took us out of Egypt with a strong hand” etc.[3] By the time the Israelites settle into the Promised Land, the second post-slavery generation has been born. This means that “Not all the people who identified themselves as Israel came out of the crucible of slavery in Egypt. Nevertheless, they took this history upon themselves, allowing their character to be formed by a story not directly their own.”[4] In other words, the national narrative becomes personal story.
And the point of connection is not power or glory, or even their common blood. Their point of connection is pain and powerlessness. This means that the liturgy spoken at the offering of the first fruits of the harvest is a naming of both national and personal trauma.
This is not what I thought when I first started reading the scripture. Listen again to the beginning:
“When you have come into the land that the Lord your God is giving you as an inheritance to possess, and you possess it, and settle in it, you shall take some of the first of all the fruit of the ground, which you harvest from the land that the Lord your God is giving you, and you shall put it in a basket and go to the place that the Lord your God will choose as a dwelling.”
It sounds like a simple basket of fruit, or the harvest of whatever kind. It’s not a complicated offering. There are no instructions of the requirement for two unblemished animals or even large quantities of the harvest. It can’t be a big offering if it fits in a basket. The first thought that occurred to me when I read this was “a basket of blessings.” But when you see the whole picture, clearly that’s not what we’re talking about. Oh, it’s a basket of blessings, but it is also a basket that carries the harvest of slave labor. It is a basket that holds the hopes of an oppressed people. It is a basket embedded with the sand of the desert and broken dreams. It is a basket of broken blessings.
That is our theme for Lent: broken blessings. How many times have our blessings carried the echo of pain? How often have we found that we celebrate the calm after the storm? How often does brokenness make room for beauty? That’s the way life is.
There is a country love song by Rascal Flatts that speaks to this reality. It says:
I set out on a narrow way many years ago
Hoping I would find true love along the broken road.
But I got lost a time or two; wiped my brow and kept pushing through.
I couldn’t see how every sign pointed straight to you.
Every long lost dream led me to where you are.
Others who broke my heart, they were like northern stars
Pointing me on my way into your loving arms.
This much I know is true:
That God blessed the broken road that led me straight to you.
God blesses the broken road. God blesses the broken dream. God blesses the broken promise. That doesn’t mean God does the breaking. But God will most certainly work in the brokenness to bring the blessing.
Years ago a friend of mine was driving down the interstate when some kids threw a rock from an overpass. The rock hit her windshield and broke it, causing my friend’s car to crash. During the treatment of her injuries, they had to put a tube down her throat. When they removed the tube, they scraped her throat. When they checked to make sure no other damage had been done, they discovered cancer. The early detection was a blessing. A broken blessing.
I know someone else whose marriage was destroyed by an affair. But the death of that bad marriage made room for a long, happy one. A broken blessing. God blessed the broken road.
Last week Jackie and Sara shared with you their experiences of homelessness. Jackie said that quite a few of you came up to her after worship and told her you’d had similar experiences. Some of you even said, “You told my story this morning.” But you are here, housed and clothed and most of you well-fed. God blessed the broken road.
When you came into worship this morning, you chose or were handed a piece of colored paper. I’m going to tell you now what that’s for. I want you to think about your own life for a moment. Do you have a blessing that came out of brokenness? Do you have an area of your life that wouldn’t be as beautiful if you hadn’t been through the difficult times? I invite you to write that broken blessing on your paper—that blessing that came out of difficulty. Or if you’re still in the middle of the pain and it hurts so bad that looking for the blessing in it feels false and disrespectful to your suffering, then I invite you to name the brokenness. Or if you can’t do either of those, then you can list simply a surprise blessing. Don’t just name the first thing that comes to mind. Search your heart for an unusual blessing for which you’re grateful. Then, on your way out of worship this morning, please place your broken blessing in one of the baskets at the doors. So you will name it, but then you will leave it here.
There are some ball point pens on each end of the pew, which I invite you to share with your neighbor. So again, here are your instructions. On the strip of paper write either: 1) A broken blessing; 2) An area of brokenness; or 3) An unusual blessing. Please take a moment.
[Time given for writing.]
The end of our scripture passage tells us what we do now. “Once I have set my offering down before YHWH, my God, and have bowed down before YHWH, my God, then I am ‘to celebrate together with the Levites and the immigrants who reside among us’ (Dt 26:11). This is no simple recitation that ends after the words stop. I now am commanded to celebrate the gifts I have received and given with two groups that are not likely able to offer gifts as I can. There are first the Levites, landless priests, who do the holy work of priest but live only on the gifts of those whom they serve. The second group is the immigrants, foreigners who have come to live with us, but who may not yet have the means or the land to offer gifts of their own to YHWH.”[5] In other words, we share. We share our food. We share the first fruits, not what is left over at the end. We share them with those who have nothing to give in return. We share because our ancestor was a wandering Aramean. We share because we may be the blessing on their broken road.
That song by Rascal Flatts has been running through my head all week. It is a meaningful love song, one that I can relate to. But this week I also heard it in my head as a prayer. You see, the brokenness and woundedness and suffering we experience can draw us closer to God or can push us away. Some people can go through a tragedy and end up blaming God forever. Others can blame God for a season and then move on. Others never seem to blame God at all. I don’t know what makes the difference. But I do know that the broken road can also lead us to God. Let’s hear that song again, this time as though spoken to God.
I set out on a narrow way many years ago
Hoping I would find true love along the broken road.
But I got lost a time or two; wiped my brow and kept pushing through.
I couldn’t see how every sign pointed straight to you.
Every long lost dream led me to where you are.
Pointing me on my way into your loving arms.
This much I know is true:
God, bless the broken road that led me straight to you.
[1] Yarchin, William. “Commentary on Deuteronomy 26:1-11. workingpreacher.org.
[2] Ibid.
[3] http://www.beliefnet.com/Faiths/Judaism/2000/09/Experiencing-The-Exodus-In-All-Generations.aspx
[4] Strohl, Jane E. “The Via Negativa.” Word & World, Winter 1995.
[5] Holbert, John C. “A Different Sort of Creed” www.patheos.com.