Wednesday Nights & Glory - Exodus 33:12-23

Something special is happening here on Wednesday nights. If you come to the Episcopal Church from another tradition, you may remember going to church midweek for dinner and classes. Alongside choir rehearsal, we’ve finally added Wednesday night programming here, thanks to Hannah, Ragan, and Marvin. And so far, it has been much more than dinner and classes. Here’s what I’ve noticed.

There has been laughter in the kitchen, as teams have made feeding 100 people look easy. Every table in Parke Hall has been full, and the conversation has been lively. And you all seem to love lingering in that space after dinner or class is over, the way people do in the living room after a party.

Maybe you’ve also noticed the flocks of kids running around the place. Adults who grew up here have stories about doing the same thing, whenever they could get away with it. What I see is children experiencing this place as their own, making the kind of spontaneous, joyful memories you can’t get in the same way from a class or a structured activity.

We’ve also needed every available space for all the activities. It feels as though we’ve gone from a parish house to a parish home. Which is exactly what you hope for when you renovate a house. We are much more than buildings or a collection of friendly faces. There’s Wednesday programming, yes. But there’s also something harder to schedule: we’re getting to know God and each other better.

As new as some of this can feel on the other side of a major renovation, it is part of a much older story. In this morning’s reading from Exodus, the Israelites are in the wilderness, still at Sinai, and they have just broken the rules by worshiping a golden calf. So Moses has been pleading with God on their behalf. God has promised to send an angel ahead of them and lead them to the promised land, but says that God’s own presence will not go with them. Moses won’t accept that arrangement. A master negotiator, he makes his counteroffer: no presence, no journey. And God agrees.

But then Moses asks for something else. “Show me your glory, I pray.” It’s a remarkable move. Until now, Moses has been asking on behalf of the people, making sure they have the deal they need for the journey. Now he asks for something that can’t be reduced to a practical need. He wants to know God more deeply. He wants to see God’s glory. That’s more about love than necessity.

I imagine God delighted in this. God grants the request, or as much of it as Moses can survive, since seeing the face of God would be lethal. God promises to let all of God’s goodness pass before Moses, and to speak the divine name. Then God places Moses in the cleft of a rock and covers him with a hand as God passes by. Moses sees God’s back. And yes, this is the moment when graduate students in seminary turn back into middle schoolers and snicker about God’s backside. Which seems fitting. How can we not feel a little awkward at newfound intimacy with God?

That ancient story line continues in today’s Gospel. Some people try to trap Jesus with a question. For religious people, is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor? It’s a question about the ledger, about who owes whom. Jesus asks for a coin. “Whose image is this?” referring to the emperor’s. “Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”

Jesus’ answer sounds like a simple division of the books: some for Caesar, some for the Church. Not a bad message at the beginning of stewardship season, by the way. But there is more to this money question than that. The coin is Caesar’s because it carries his image. The first chapter of Genesis tells us that we carry God’s image. We belong to God, then. But it’s not just a contract or a system of what we owe in return, it’s more of a love story. The story is ongoing, with a pattern. God gave to us first, and when we give ourselves away in love, as Christ did, God meets us there, offering as much of God’s glory as we can bear.

It’s been another heavy week in the news, locally, nationally, and globally. If you could use a hopeful love story this week, you’re in luck. We’ve been telling one all morning. Most of our lives run on ledgers and contracts, and those keep the world running. But when things are hard, when glory seems thin on the ground, no contract is enough to carry us through. So we come here, and do a lot of seemingly useless things. We bring out the silk and the silver, we sing, we pray, we eat a bit of bread and sip a little wine. Here we are reminded of the love story underneath it all. Here we glimpse God’s glory, and the glory of one another as God’s own.

Later in Exodus, we’re told that Moses’ face shone after he spoke with God. And here’s the detail I love: Moses didn’t know he was shining. Everyone else could see it, but he couldn’t. That may be how glory works among us, too. We rarely can see our own. We see it in one another: in the laughter from the kitchen, in the people who linger, in the children who have made this place their own. We’re completely surrounded by shining faces in this parish home.

So, Christ Church, here’s your invitation: first, to pray like Moses, boldly and a little fiercely, “Lord, show us your glory.” And then look up. Look at the person beside you. Look across the tables in Parke Hall on a Wednesday night. The glory you’re seeking may already be sitting right there. And even when we can’t see it, especially after a hard week, God’s presence goes with us, just as Moses asked. And then, week after week, come to this table, with whatever awkwardness or sadness or joy you might be carrying. You may not see the light on your own face, but everyone else will.