Radical Compassion (MPLS)

Exodus 2:1–10

Now a man from the house of Levi went and married a Levite woman. The woman conceived and bore a son; and when she saw that he was a fine baby, she hid him three months. When she could hide him no longer she got a papyrus basket for him, and plastered it with bitumen and pitch; she put the child in it and placed it among the reeds on the bank of the river. His sister stood at a distance, to see what would happen to him.

The daughter of Pharaoh came down to bathe at the river, while her attendants walked beside the river. She saw the basket among the reeds and sent her maid to bring it. When she opened it, she saw the child. He was crying, and she took pity on him, “This must be one of the Hebrews’ children,” she said. Then his sister said to Pharaoh’s daughter, “Shall I go and get you a nurse from the Hebrew women to nurse the child for you?” Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, “Yes.” So the girl went and called the child’s mother. Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, “Take this child and nurse it for me, and I will give you your wages.” So the woman took the child and nursed it. When the child grew up, she brought him to Pharaoh’s daughter, and she took him as her son. She named him Moses, “because,” she said, “I drew him out of the water.”

We’re beginning a sermon series today focusing on radical welcome.  “Radical” can sound like a description of someone from the 70s with wild ideas and ragged clothing, but it can also mean going to the root of who we are. As such, radical welcome is more than a friendly gesture. It’s hospitality even to the stranger. And why do we share it? Because God has been radical first in welcoming and loving us.  

We get a picture of radical welcome in today’s reading from Exodus. It tells of the travails of a Hebrew people enslaved in Egypt. They’ve been there for over 400 years. Each generation had asked the same question: can we make it out of Egypt alive? In today’s story there are two young girls, and if you read closely, they manage to get into all sorts of surprising things when their parents are not around.

Anything like that ever happen in your household? Normally, when the parents are not around, we think trouble. I remember back to the fifth grade. I was riding bike home from country school. As I often did, I stopped to play under a bridge. I wasn’t really supposed to play there, but hey, my parents were often nowhere to be found.  

Brule Creek was under that bridge. It was filled with muddy, murky water. It was a hard place to find one’s footing. Who knew where the deep water started? Even so, there were all sorts of interesting things to explore.  

One very windy day, I stopped at the bridge with a friend. But we didn’t go into the water. I wanted to show him how brave I was by hanging from one of the bridge supports. My friend didn’t want to do it, so I challenged him, “Come on, I can do it with one hand.” But when I tried to hang on, my hand slipped. I fell to the ground and broke a couple of bones in my arm. As my buddy ran to get help, the only thing I could think to say was this: “Tell ‘em I fell off my bike. It’s an awfully windy day, you know.” So, with that little lie, he ran off to find my parents and get me the help I needed.  

What do you think: is trouble the only thing that happens when the parents are not around? Our text gives us another possibility. Notice that it doesn’t tell us the age of Moses’ sister or Pharaoh’s daughter. We don’t know if they were 20-somethings or teenagers or or even younger. What it does suggest is that each of them has an inner radical, a sense of right and wrong at the root of things, and it’s just waiting to be unleashed. It had less to do with telling fibs to their parents, and more to do with setting aside what they should do, and instead working together on what they might do. Isn’t that what happens sometimes when you find yourself in slippery places like the Brule Creek or the Nile River?

Some context might be helpful. Our story is set in ancient Egypt, a world superpower at the time. It’s roughly 1300 BCE (before the Christian era). The Hebrews were slaves of the Egyptians, but their population was growing. Pharaoh Ramses II, likely the king of Egypt at the time, was threatened by it. He worried that soon these people would be almost as numerous and powerful as his own. 

So Pharaoh hatched an unspeakably evil plan to control his slaves. He targeted the boys. Egyptians were ordered to exterminate every Hebrew boy that was born—pitch ‘em into the Nile.  Pharaoh was convinced: target the boys of the people you want to dominate, and eventually you will destroy them.

Moses, of course, was a boy. His mother didn’t want to let him go. She did what she could to hide him. But babies grow. And when the mother couldn’t hide him anymore, she took a bunch of papyrus, sealed it with pitch, and made a snug little ark for her 3-month-old son. It was a courageous act, designed to save a life. But it was heartbreakingly limited. Surely it would last only a few days before the baby would die of exposure.  

With that, the mother left the scene. As we mentioned before, there were no parents to be found. I imagine that, like Hagar with baby Ishmael in the wilderness, Moses’ mother couldn’t bear to sit by and watch her baby die.  

Moses’ big sister takes over from there. That’s what big sisters often do: they keep watch when the parents aren’t around. It’s part of being a family. You spend some time in the reeds, keep watch, and then report back later.  

Pharaoh’s daughter then enters the picture. She has a different agenda. She comes down to the river to take a bath. I suspect being in the palace all day can be a tough job. So, you call your maids and go the river. It’s part of being a family. You spend some time in the reeds and then come home.

Suddenly we have two girls in the reeds. They know what they’re supposed to do: Hide and watch. Bathe and dress.  Do as you’re told and then go home. They could have done just that and never met one another. But you know how it is: the reeds are a muddy, murky place. It’s hard to find one’s footing. Who knows where the deep water starts? No doubt, things can happen down in the reeds to upset your balance.  

That’s what happened one fateful day. The princess finds the baby. Or more specifically, the Egyptian princess finds the Hebrew baby. She knows what she’s supposed to do with it. So does the sister.  So now what? What do you do with a baby in a basket when you’re down the reeds, at the river’s edge, and your parents are nowhere to be found?

The princess knows all too well what her father would do. Since this is a Hebrew male child, she’s supposed to tip over the basket and let the baby tumble into the water. And the older sister knows what her mother would have wanted. If someone finds the baby, she’s supposed to keep watch, as awful as things might get. And then later she’s to report back to her mother.  

Friends, what are we supposed to do with a story like this? Two girls are in the reeds and there’s a little boy between them. They know what their parents would want, but get this, they do not do it. They can’t. Maybe that’s because things often look different when you’re down in the reeds. You have to think for yourself, look for yourself, and tell it like you see it. 

“This must be one of the Hebrew’s children,” the princess announces. Sometimes telling the truth is the most radical thing a person can do; just to name what you see directly in front of you. That baby has been left in the basket to die. Say it out loud: This must be one of the Hebrew’s children, because no other mothers are forced to make little arks to float in the Nile, trying to save their babies from a flood of hatred.

As is sometimes the case when you’re stuck in the reeds, one truth calls to another. One girl, stammering out the truth about what she sees, empowers another girl to speak up, too. One girl, pausing over unimaginable evil, encourages another to stand beside her. Moses’ sister gets an idea. “Do you want me to find a nurse among the Hebrew women?” she asks the princess. As she says it, the sister steps out from her hiding place. “Do you want me to find someone to nurse that child—for you?”

And just like that, a plan to save a life is born, no matter what their parents might think of it. And it’s about the craziest plan you can imagine: to take baby Moses back to his Hebrew mother for a few years, and tell everyone it’s the right thing to do because it’s at the direction of Pharaoh’s daughter.

Really, this is what these two young girls decide to do! And

they get away with it! And when Moses is 3 years old, the princess actually adopts him. She takes him into the palace and raises him there, just down the hall from dear old dad.

At the heart of it, this is a story about radical compassion, and about two young people doing whatever crazy thing they can dream up together. They aren’t swinging under a bridge, mind you. It’s far more courageous than that. And in the process, they end up changing the world!

Friends, I’m wondering about you today. What’s going on in the world where you live, in your city, in your neighborhood, in your family? It’s one of the craziest times this country has ever seen. I don’t think I’m overstating it to say that we are in the reeds too.  You know what I mean: all the shootings, the violence, the mental health issues, the racism, the partisan divide. How on earth are we going to have conversations about these things without shouting each other down? What do you do when you’re in that muddy, slippery place down in the reeds? How do you keep listening and talking and praying?

Perhaps we need to start by imaging what Moses’ big sister and the Egyptian princess might have to tell us. Radical thinking is called for. Maybe a place to start is here: You don’t have to read the world exactly the way our parents would have.  There will come a day when your parents are no longer with you, and you’ll have to decide for yourselves what you are going to do about whatever troubling situation that is staring you in the face. And if you’ve been raised to think that the baby in the basket doesn’t matter, and that you can just turn and walk away, then something might have to change. Because, let’s be honest, the solution to this troubling situation often depends on you and me.

Perhaps a second thing these two girls have to tell us is this: If you’re down in the reeds, forget the lie trying to cover things up. Start by telling the truth about what you see.  Sometimes that’s the most radical thing you can do. Just say it: “This is one of the Hebrew’s children!” And again, one truth often calls to another. You might find someone who’s listening, waiting for a reason to come out of their hiding place, to stand with you, and to make a plan to save a life.

And perhaps a third thing these two girls have to tell us is this: This is how liberation often begins. God’s liberating work starts down in the reeds, with an interruption you not expecting.  The water is muddy and murky. The footing is anything but certain. And yet, God’s liberation of a people can start with two young girls and one really crazy idea. Sometimes that’s all you need!

Friends, whenever we as children of God claim the freedom to re-imagine the world we’re living in—perhaps an inner radical, a sense of right and wrong at the root of things, can be unleashed inside of you and me.  

Look out when you’re down in the reeds. You could lose your balance. But who knows what might come next? Perhaps Moses can grow up. The Exodus out of slavery can begin. And radical compassion can end up winning the day. Amen