Sermon – We are all Wilderness People

(I preached this sermon at Christ Lutheran Church, Harrisburg, PA on Sunday October 5, 2025. It is based on Exodus 16:1-18)

I got a phone call recently from a colleague of mine — another pastor.
He said, “I need to tell you something. I’ve been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I’ve got some more tests, but I’ve been given three months to live if the doctors are correct.”  It felt like a gut punch.

When the call ended, I didn’t know what to say.
I was driving and staring at the road, and the only thing I could manage was silence — and then, as the miles went by, questions. Complaints. “Why?” “That’s not fair.” “God, I don’t even know what to say.”

That drive was quiet on the outside, but inside it was noisy — a wilderness of grief, confusion, and complaint.

And I think that’s where the Israelites find themselves in Exodus 16.
They’ve just been set free — liberated from Pharaoh, from forced labor, from oppression. They’ve seen the Red Sea part. They’ve sung songs of victory. You’d think this would be their moment of triumph, of rest, of celebration.

But liberation doesn’t lead to paradise.  It leads straight into the wilderness.

The wilderness is that in-between place — after freedom, but before promise.
It’s where the old ways don’t work anymore, but the new ways haven’t yet been revealed.

That’s where God’s people find themselves: free, but hungry. Liberated, but lost.
They start to complain — and they don’t hold back.

“If only we had died in Egypt, where at least we had food!”  That’s what they tell Moses.

They romanticize their slavery. They rewrite their past to make it sound better than their present.  And if we’re honest, we do the same thing sometimes.
When life feels uncertain, when the wilderness stretches out too long, we start to say, “Maybe Egypt wasn’t so bad.”
At least there, we knew what to expect.
At least there, we had control.  Or the illusion of control. 

One of the things I love most about this story is that God doesn’t punish them for complaining.
God doesn’t say, “Stop it. Be quiet. Be grateful.”  God listens.

Because God is big enough to handle our complaints.
God doesn’t squash us when we cry out.
God doesn’t shame us for being human.
God hears what’s underneath the complaint — the hunger, the fear, the grief, the loss of control.

When we complain, we’re really saying: “God, something’s wrong.”
“God, I’m hurting.”
“God, I need you.”

And God doesn’t ignore that. God hears it — and comes close.

Sometimes the wilderness strips away our polite religion.
In the wilderness, we stop pretending everything’s fine.
We stop performing faith.  We start being honest.
And honesty is holy ground. Because when the surface cracks, God can finally get to what’s underneath — the real stuff, the deep-down stuff — and open it up so there’s room for God’s presence.

I remember that seminary class I took years ago — it was called The Theology of Cancer.

It was the first class I took at seminary. The first part of the semester, we learned about the science of cancer — how it works, what it does to the body.
Then we were assigned to congregations that had people walking through it — patients, survivors, and families who had lost loved ones.

At the end, we were asked to put on a skit.
We had an interviewer, a patient, and I played the part of Cancer.

I put on dark clothes, slouched in a chair, interrupted people, answered rudely, laid around like I owned the place.
Cancer was unpredictable, selfish, and full of complaints.
And when the skit was over, people came and talked with us. I remember one person saying to me that they wanted to hit me with a frying pan.  I asked if I did a good job or not, a little scared.  No, they said, I got it right – it was very real.  

Cancer is like the wilderness — unpredictable, unfair, uncontrollable.
It interrupts our lives. It doesn’t play by the rules.
And in that wilderness, there’s nothing left to do but cry out to God — sometimes in pain, sometimes in anger, sometimes in complaint.

And you know what? God can handle it.
God doesn’t walk away.
God shows up — maybe not with a cure, maybe not with all the answers — but with manna.
Just enough for that day.
Grace enough for that moment.
God is a God of enough.

The word manna literally means “What is this?”
The people didn’t know what it was. They had never seen it before. They had to ask, “What is this?”

And that question — “What is this?” — is one of the most important questions of faith.
It’s the question we ask when we’re lost. When we don’t understand.
When life changes and nothing looks familiar anymore.
When the diagnosis comes. When the relationship ends. When the job disappears.
“What is this, God? What is happening?”

Martin Luther made that question central to his Small Catechism.
Every section — the Ten Commandments, the Creed, the Lord’s Prayer — begins with, “What is this?”
Because “What is this?” isn’t just confusion — it’s curiosity. It’s openness.
It’s the question we ask when our defenses are down and we’re finally ready to receive what God is giving.

When we stop pretending to have it all figured out, we can finally say, “What is this?” — and begin to see the manna that’s been there all along.

When the Israelites were freed, they expected paradise.
They thought liberation would mean instant happiness, full tables, and easy living.

But freedom and faith don’t work that way.
We move from the unrealistic expectations of paradise into the reality of wilderness — where life is messy, uncontrolled, unpredictable.
Where our schedules don’t hold up.
Where the things we thought had value suddenly don’t.
And where the only way forward is to rely on one another.

Because the truth is, we’re all wandering in the wilderness together.
We may not all be hungry in the same way — but we are all looking for something to sustain us.

And if we’re honest, we know we’re living through a wilderness time right now.
As a nation. As communities. As individuals.
There’s division and fear and cruelty all around us.
There’s uncertainty about the future — about jobs, about housing, about healthcare, about safety.  People are exhausted, anxious, and stretched thin.

How long will this wilderness last?
How long will the state of affairs continue in this country?
How long will people suffer because of greed or neglect?
How long will the marginalized be targeted?
How long will the hungry remain hungry, and the homeless without shelter?
How long will those trapped in addiction feel there’s no way out?
How long will those wrestling with depression or mental illness struggle in silence?
How long will loneliness eat away at so many hearts?
How long will people pray for better housing and still face closed doors?
How long, O Lord? How long?

That’s not just a lament — it’s a complaint.
And it’s holy. Because every “How long?” is really a prayer that says, “God, we’re still waiting for you to act.”  And God hears it.

In the wilderness, God doesn’t get angry and walk away.  God provides.
Not necessarily what the people want — but what they need.

They want certainty. God gives them daily bread.
They want abundance. God gives enough.
They want control. God gives trust.

That’s what faith looks like in the wilderness — trusting that God is still present even when all we have is enough for today.

How long will the treatment take?
How long until I find a job?
How will I pay this bill?
How will I take care of my kids?
How long will my pain continue?
How long will I find peace in my recovery?
How will I get help for my mental health?
How will I deal with the loneliness I face?
How will I keep going through depression?
And God’s answer, over and over again, is: “I am here. And I will give you enough.”

This idea of “enough” runs through all of Scripture.
The Hebrew word for it is shalom.
We often translate shalom as “peace,” but it’s more than peace. It means wholeness, completeness, enoughness.

It’s what Jesus was talking about in his parables — the Kingdom of God, the Kingdom of Heaven — not some far-off, otherworldly reward, but the reality of enoughness right here and right now.

After humanity left the garden of Eden, we’ve been wandering in the wilderness ever since.
Life is the wilderness.
And all through Scripture, God doesn’t try to pull us out of it.
God comes to us in it.
We wander and complain — and God listens, loves, and provides what we need.

That’s what life is about.  That’s what faith is about.
That’s what shalom looks like: not perfection, not paradise, but enoughness — enough love, enough mercy, enough grace to keep going.

The beauty of our Lutheran expression of faith is that it doesn’t point us toward some far-off heavenly escape plan.
Our faith is about now.
It’s about God in the wilderness.
It’s about a real God who meets us here — not waiting for us to clean up, but walking beside us while we’re still messy, still complaining, still human.

It’s about now and later. The wilderness and paradise.
But we don’t get to paradise without going through the wilderness — without getting lost, without complaining, without being human, and without encountering God right there in the middle of it.

The God we worship isn’t distant or demanding.
God doesn’t wait for us to have our act together.
God takes on flesh in Jesus — and comes to us where we are.
God walks with us. God stays with us.
God isn’t about magically making everything perfect as we imagine it — but about showing up in our doubt, our complaint, our despair — and loving us forward.

That’s the real God.
The God who comes with us.
The God of enough.

Last week I served as chaplain for the synod middle school retreat. It was wonderful — joy-filled, full of laughter, and community that felt alive.
One evening, the staff and leadership sat together and someone asked, “How do we take what we have here — this community, this joy, this sense of belonging — back into the world?”

And that’s a good question.
But the answer isn’t that we take paradise back with us. That’s not realistic.
We go back into the wilderness — into messy lives, hard places, broken systems.
And we go not as people carrying paradise, but as people carrying manna.

We go to be God’s presence in the wilderness.
To offer daily bread — hope, compassion, justice, love — to those who are wandering beside us.
Because in the end, we are all wilderness people.
And God calls us to be manna for one another.

Friends, God is not scared of your complaints.  God welcomes them.
Because complaints are prayers in disguise.
They’re the sound of honesty, the sound of trust — the sound of people who believe God might actually care enough to listen.

And God does.
God hears the cries of people wandering in the desert.
God hears the sighs that never become words.
God hears the questions — “What is this?” — and answers with grace.

God doesn’t take us out of the wilderness.
God joins us in it.
And every morning, in ways big and small, God still provides manna — enough love, enough mercy, enough strength, enough shalom for today.

Because our God is not a God of scarcity or punishment.
Our God is a God of enough.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.