First Presbyterian Church of Watertown

Exodus 17 and Romans 5

“The Power of Horseradish”

The Rev. Dr. Fred G. Garry

February 24, 2008

I’ve told so many stories in sermons I can’t remember when and where and if I told one before. I want to tell you a story from my childhood and literally I can’t remember if I have described this to you before. I know I have used this story in a sermon before it is a moment that was transforming for me; it was a kind of turning point in leaving childhood behind. Yet, reading over the scriptures this week something was revealed to me in the memory that I had never seen before. So for all intents and purposes the story just became new to me.

I was 10 or 11 visiting my grandfather on the Salton Sea. This is the largest body of inland salt water in the United States, maybe the world, although it is shrinking as we speak. The Salton Sea was formed when the Colorado River experienced massive flooding in 1905. The body of salt water sits, like the Dead Sea, below sea level. My grandfather moved there for the fishing, and as a young boy I would board a bus in the summer and go for a two-week visit.

Time with my grandfather was usually tough and often filled with the bitterness that arose from the disappointments of his life. But time with him was also magical as he was an inventor, holder of numerous patens, and willing and ready to build anything. Around him I was given the opportunity to run machines, look over plans, haul, mend, or otherwise do things that were very new. Being with him I was ever gazing into a very foreign world. It was with him that I realized every tool has a name, and every tool has a certain place that it is supposed to be- at least his tools, that is.

Life on the Salton Sea was divided into three parts. There was the work time, which began very early before the 110 plus degrees of the afternoon heat, and then there was the midday siesta followed by the most beautiful evenings on earth. Literally as the sun set over the mountains a whole new world emerged; it was also a lot cooler.

During one siesta time as my grandfather sat under the shade of the porch, I donned his rubber boots and headed to the canal to wade into the water without getting my feet covered in the thick mud. “Don’t wear those boots,” he said as I walked past. “I’ll wash them off” was my retort, believing his concern was my lack of responsibility; I wouldn’t know to clean them.

As I walked into the water though what I had thought was a warning about me was actually a warning about what eight inches of desert mud would do to rubber boots. Three steps into the canal and it was as if my feet were encased in cement. Looking down I laughed thinking, boy am I stuck. But in just a few moments I realized I wasn’t just stuck, I was really stuck.

There was just enough room in the boot to wiggle my heel and ankle back and forth. This loosened the vise grip of the mud just a bit but not much. As the sun beat down giving all that it can in the desert I realized I needed to get my foot out as fast as possible lest the reflection of the water turn my body into a blazing shade of red.

So I worked harder and harder. Finally after about ten minutes I got a foot loose and I pulled it from the boot. As it emerged, though, I shocked to see that the rough inside of boot had worn away a few layers of skin; there was blood all over my leg. Putting it into the water I came to realize what the phrase, salt in the wound meant. The salt water ignited my skin.

Working just as hard now with a dual motivation of getting out of the water, it wasn’t much longer until I had the other foot free but this was just as bloody. It was at this moment I looked up and saw my grandfather still watching me from the porch. Even though the salt water was searing both legs, I knew, I couldn’t leave yet; I couldn’t leave the boots in the water. So I started to dig and pull and finally heave the mud-encased boots out of the canal.

As painful as it was, what I really dreaded was his dressing down. I could see my grandfather sitting there and I knew the wrath that was to come, how I should have listened, how I was some sort of citified moron, how at some point I needed to be responsible. As I walked up the rise toward the house, head down, legs burning and bleeding, I never anticipated what came next. When I got to the top of the rise to where the porch began, he was gone. Not only was he gone, he never mentioned a word to me about it.

For the better part of the last thirty years I always thought of this instance as a moment of grace. The reprieve of his silence was a gift that meant a lot, for I knew it took a lot for him not to speak at such a moment. Reading Romans this week I saw something else.

I now believe my grandfather didn’t intend to give mercy. I believe he considered the lesson and the suffering it involved simply said enough. There was nothing in need of being said. And looking back on it now that is exactly what happened. There was a moment of challenge, suffering, that opened up a new way of looking at life. Enduring it, realizing my folly, embarrassed by the mistake, character began to emerge, and with character the hope of being a man took hold.

Suffering can do this. Hard moments in life open up a different way of looking at the world, they can sober us, they can straighten us out; they can wake us up. How many of us have not been caught in a hardship and wondered what good will come of it? What kind of person will this make us? Or better still how often have we watched a young person whose life has gone astray and then faces a great difficulty and we say, “Maybe this will set them straight”?

What we are saying is that we believe suffering produces endurance, endurance character, and character hope. We believe this. We believe that hardship can fix things. Think about what you say when someone who you dislike runs into trouble. Many here at some point have said, “That will show him; that will fix her.” And it can. It can make us better people. Suffering may not be the only way to build character, but it is certainly one for which we have a great trust and reliance.

Lost in the desert, looking for water the Israelites asked Moses why they were suffering. Literally they asked him, “Are we suffering because life is hard or are we suffering because this is part of the way we are becoming the people of God?” In other words, is there a point to this or not? The question (is God in our midst or not?) is a question we ask too and not infrequently. How often have we been in the midst of trial, some sort of tribulation, and we wonder if this is a lesson, is this a moment that will have value, make us stronger, or is it just suffering?

This is a good question because not all suffering is redemptive. Walking through villages three years ago and seeing children with the distended, malnourished bellies and the orange tint to their hair, I didn’t think, “This is good for building character.” No. In fact what it does is foster a life of arrested mental development. Not eating enough food the first five years of your life can be endured, but it doesn’t lead to hope. It leads to a child with as much potential as the next to live the rest of their life as not very bright.

This is what the Israelites want to know. Are we suffering as part of the challenge of becoming free, as freedom is born of great suffering, or are we suffering because the desert is not a good place to take hundreds of thousands of people without provisions? The Medieval Rabbis said this question is part of the suffering of birth- of coming to be. In Hebrew it is a question that is part crying out in anguish and part revelation. In asking the question, the slaves are struggling to become free and yet seeing freedom for what it is.

In the question of the thirsty slaves there is another element. They not only ask about the nature of the suffering, but also, the presence of God. It could be easy to interpret the question of where God is at to suggest that God is “on their side,” God will come to their aid. God will not abandon nor forsake. This is in their question. But there is also a sense of God suffering with the slaves. You are in the midst of this meaning you are thirsty as we are thirsty, you are being beset as we are beset.

Oftentimes the Israelites would ask God to be their champion, their protector, just as there were many times when the prophets told them God was their punisher and the one who was bringing suffering. Yet, at Meribah there is no war, no prophets so to speak. There was, though, no water in sight until Moses is told to strike the rock. The passage we are reading doesn’t tell if the question comes before or after the water. This is the mystery of the story. If the question comes before the water is given, then it is truly a question of suffering and whether it is redemptive. If the question comes after the water it becomes a very profound question to God: do you suffer with us?

Probably one of the most painful things I have seen was watching Vince Jones die. Vince lost his wife before I became his pastor, but he spoke of her so often that I knew her. Vince was kindly, a Navy veteran. As a widower, he was also at every community supper or potluck. Literally if Vince wasn’t at a meal people would call to check if he was all right, make sure he wasn’t sick. There was a great character and hope in him. I enjoyed Vince, took him to doctor’s appointments after surgeries no longer allowed him to drive. He lived the last stage of his life with a kind of ornery self-reliance that is and was his generation.

As his body failed him he was admitted to the naval hospital. His sons were called and they came, two of them at least. The youngest and third son, though, was not to be seen. He was in Florida, promised to come. I had heard all the exploits of his youngest. He was in and out of drugs, lived off of his father’s gifts, and was not shall we say being a good man.

Vince’s body started to shut down and reached the point of heavy breathing that is a sure sign that someone will die very soon. But he didn’t. Each day I would see Vince and each day he was still gasping for air. After three days it started to become clear that he was fighting back death until his youngest arrived. On the fifth day it was something that was as heartbreaking as it was awe-inspiring. I can remember sitting next to Vince listening to him gasp and being so angry with the youngest son. Finally, Vince died.

The youngest son didn’t show up until the funeral and the settling of his father’s estate. Speaking at the graveside I was surprised by how much disappointment I felt. I wanted him to get there, to be there for him. I wanted this to help shake him up, straighten him out. His father had gasped for breath, struggled, suffered, and endured for five days just hoping for him to show his face. I wanted him to know that because the suffering was so powerful.

My grandfather always dared me to eat horseradish. He told me it would put hair on my chest. Well, I’ve eaten a lot of horseradish and he was wrong about it’s power to grow hair. Yet, what I believe he meant is that it is powerful stuff, and eating it is a sure sign that you are growing up, becoming a man. Sitting with Vince as he was gasping I kept hoping his son would show up and step up and start being a man. I wanted him to see and understand how much his father was willing to suffer, just to bless a boy who didn’t deserve it. I prayed that he would show up.

It occurred to me this week, as I let my mind wander back to that moment, Vince conjured up hope in me. His suffering made me hope for his son, made me pray for him, even if my prayers were angry. The breathing for five days wasn’t in vain. To this day I hope for Vince’s youngest son. I hope he has become a good man.

Is God in our midst or not? Are the challenges we face redemptive? I would say for the most part. Yet, the deeper question is one of God’s suffering. Is God suffering in our midst conjuring, creating, fostering hope in us? Are there moments, places, events in our life where God enters in and suffers so we can become free, become good men and women? I don’t believe Vince died alone or better yet suffered alone; God suffered with him.

I have grown to love horseradish. And even if it doesn’t have all the power my grandfather claimed, there is never a time I open a jar and don’t think of him or those boots in the mud. Experiences like those are redemptive; they open us up and create the possibility of becoming more. Yet, the real question is not what we become, but what we become for others. Vince didn’t suffer to become more. His suffering made me more and I hope it made something of his youngest as well. Amen.