Community Church Sermons

The Ninth Sunday After Pentecost – July 21, 2002

Lessons Learned from Failure

Exodus 2:11-25

Stephen Nash

 

Moses blew it miserably.  I think we can all identify with him in that regard, because all of us have blown it at one time or another.  A prince and a statesman in Pharaoh’s court, destined, perhaps, to the throne of Egypt.  But he saw one of his own people being abused at the hands of Egyptian taskmasters, he acted presumptuously and violently and killed the Egyptian.

 

We can identify with him.  He saw an obvious need—his people were being oppressed.  Certainly God is not on the side of oppression.  God is on the side of justice.  And so Moses wanted to take initiative and do something about it.  Falsely construing that his only options were flight or fight, he chose to react violently.  Can’t fault his motives.  He had a proper sense of urgency, but it seemed to set back the ultimate deliverance of his people 40 years.  He alienated himself from his people, put his own life in jeopardy, and caused increased hardship for the Hebrews.  Now there are two problems.  The people have to be delivered, and a deliverer has to be prepared.

 

It’s been said that Moses life was divided into three 40 year periods.  He spent the first 40 years thinking that he was somebody, his middle 40 learning he was nobody, and his last 40 years learning how much God uses nobodies.  I’m not sure I would put it quite that way.  Moses was not a nobody. None of us are. But he did spend those middle 40 years in obscurity in the desert learning a lot about himself and the kind of person God is able to use.

 

Before Moses could be the deliverer of his people he needed two kinds of education.  He needed forty years in the big house of Pharaoh to learn how to organize and manage people, to master the administration of law, and the craft, art, skill and techniques of a highly civilized people.  He also needed to know the rough ways of a semiarid country, for he would spent forty years in that kind of terrain with Israel.  So, running from his crime, he fled to Midian where he would complete his education.  You could say he earned his B.A. in political administration in the household of Pharaoh and his M.A. in desert survival in Midian.  Both of those schools educated him for the great mission of his life.

 

Moses would not have been God’s person for a time of crisis had not both his head and his heart been educated.  God uses prepared people.  But sometimes it takes failure in order to truly prepare us, because it’s not education of the mind that is enough, although that is important, even indispensable.  But it’s education of the spirit and heart as well.  And there were significant lessons that Moses learned through the failure that sent him into exile, and lessons we can learn too. 

 

Can you imagine what it meant to Moses, a statesman, grandson of the Pharaoh of Egypt, wealthy, influential, powerful, to be reduced for forty years to the rank of a sheepherder?  What a humiliating, degrading experience.  But he had to go through that desert experience.   Through it, God taught Moses, who had been accustomed to greatness and affluence, to cope with being a nobody in the eyes of people.  He took the first step toward developing that servant’s heart in verse 16 and 17 of our text when this former regal statesman helped seven women who came to the well by which he was sitting to water their flock.  Then Divine Providence put Moses in charge of that flock of dumb, dirty sheep, and it wasn’t even his flock.  It was, as the narrative turns out, his soon-to-be father-in-laws!  A man who had lived in the limelight as a nation’s leader was reduced to living and working for a relative in the middle of a desert.  Now that’s humbling.

 

 

 

You see, Moses likely was proud of his intelligence and his position and power.  And when you are proud in that sense, you are seldom teachable, open to allowing a greater intelligence call the shots.  Your ego gets in the way.

 

A swaggering cowboy wandered into a crowded blacksmith shop and picked a horseshoe up off the floor, not realizing that it was red hot.  Immediately he dropped it, but he didn’t rub his hand because he was too proud to admit that it had burned him.  Somebody said, “What’s wrong Zeke, too hot for you to handle?”  He said, “Nope, just doesn’t take me long to look at a horseshoe.”

 

We are proud people.  The Old Testament Wisdom Writer says that there are a few things that God hates, and the very first one is “haughty eyes.”

 

Pride is concerned with sophistication and dignity and respect, while the Divine will is for us to be open and authentic and teachable and humble.  The Bible says that whoever exalts themself will be humbled, and whoever humbles themselves will be exalted.  Proverbs 18:12 affirms that “before his downfall, a person’s heart is proud, but humility comes before honor.”

 

And providence has a way of breaking that pride by using the inevitable downfall that comes from pride.  What goes up must come down, as the current bear market is so rudely demonstrating to us.

 

Humility should be one of the most evident traits of people of faith, especially leaders.  Humility is not insecurity.  It’s not cowardice, not wimpishness, not weakness nor passivity.  Humility is strength under control.  And it is a constant awareness of the need of Divine empowering and direction in our life.

 

Humility means you’re willing to take a back seat if that will advance the cause.  It means that you’re not easily offended if you’re not in the limelight.   They don’t ask you to sing the solo, they don’t ask you to chair the committee, they don’t ask you to be up front.  You don’t get the personal attention you feel you deserve.  You’re not offended by that.

 

It means also that if things are falling apart you don’t quit.  You don’t wallow in self-pity or blame other people.  You just say,  “God, by your strength, I’m gonna hold on.”  It means that when you’re criticized you don’t let your ego go berserk and retaliate.  It means that if you’re in charge you lead as a servant, you don’t wield power as a club.  That’s what humility means.

 

The prevailing culture is not into humility.  Our culture is into arrogance.  The expression of the contemporary woman or man is haughty.   The curled lip, the defiant sneer, the cynical demeanor, the condescending attitude is so common.  A humble spirit is a sign of weakness in our culture.  “Never let ‘em see you sweat.”  Don’t let people know you have weaknesses.  All people understand is power and success.  But God says to us, “C’mon.  Get real.  Take off the mask.   Don’t play games . . . don’t play charades.  Admit your weakness and your need. Be authentic.”  God resists the proud but gives grace to the humble.

 

Those were all lessons, I believe, Moses probably did not learn in Egypt, but that he learned in the solitude of the desert.  I want to tell you what:  God will help us learn those lessons too, one way or the other, if we’re open to learn them.  There are a lot of ways that happens.

 

One is the family.  You try to be too proud, your family knows the real you—and they keep you humble.  When my kids, Beth and John,  were children at home, they wouldn’t meet me at the door with, “Welcome home, O great purveyor of profound truth.”  No, it was more than likely, “Dad, you

 

promised to take us to such and such and you’re late!”  Or if I ask Diana how many really great preachers she’s heard and she says, “I don’t know, but probably one less than YOU think.”  That’s not really true.  She’s my biggest booster.  But the family can and does humble us, because we can’t hide our warts from them.

 

Charlie Shedd was a great author and speaker who used to be a popular lecturer of family issues.  He developed a great speech entitled “How to Raise Your Children.”  He said it was a great sermon.  He was in high demand.  He got tremendous fees.  He went everywhere with his speech, “How to Raise Your Children.”

 

But then one day they had a humbling experience in their home.  Charlie and Martha Shedd had their first child.  And he said it wasn’t long before that tremendous speech was a total wreck.  Said it didn’t make much sense at 2:00 a.m. with a crying baby, so he edited the speech and gave it a new title called “Some Suggestions to Parents.”  Said he wasn’t in much demand, the fee wasn’t as high, but he kept on, had their second child, and their third, and the children became teenagers, and he altered his text and title one more time and it came out,  “Feeble Hits for Fellow Strugglers.”  But you know that I suspect Charlie Shedd’s last effort was more realistic and more used of God than his first.

 

Moses learned that lesson in humility from failure and from serving in obscurity for forty years.  Ruth Caucens points out that the great proof of humility is in a willingness to remain anonymous in service.  She prays:

 

You know, Lord, how I serve you with eager emotional fervor in the limelight.  You know how eagerly I speak for you at public meetings.  You know how I effervesce when I promote a church function.  You know my genuine enthusiasm at a Bible study.  But how would I react, I wonder, if you pointed to a basin of water and asked me to wash the calloused feet of a bent and wrinkled old woman, day after day, month after month, in a room where nobody saw, and nobody knew.

 

Moses also, in addition to humility, learned the lesson of grace.  As terrible as Moses’ failure was, it did not finally put him out of the purposes of God.  In grace, God would still use him.  That doesn’t lessen the divine ethical norms.  It is simply a reminder that if God used only perfect individuals or spotless vessels, there would be none to use. 

 

Moralistic, legalistic persons who divide people into “nice” sinners and “bad” sinners always end up stumbling over the depth and the breadth of the grace of God.  They need to hear the words of Isaiah 51:1:  “Look to the rock from which you were hewn, and to the quarry from which you were dug.”  That sounds noble and respectable.  In it’s literal meaning the word “quarry” refers to a “hole.”  The Old King James Version doesn’t miss it too far:  “The hole of the pit from which ye are digged.”  Never forget the hole of the pit from which you were dug.  Let’s remember that as a way of keeping us all on the same level—recipients of grace.  And don’t kid yourselves, even those who are extolled and admired have holes from which they were dug.

 

With Moses it was murder . . . with Elijah it was deep depression . . . with Peter it was public betrayal

. . . with David it was infidelity . . . with Thomas it was cynical doubting . . .with Jacob it was deception . . . with Rahab it was prostitution . . .

 

The list goes on and on.  Grace, grace, God’s grace.  Grace that is greater than all our sin.  That was a crucial lesson Moses learned.

 

 

The final lesson, I would judge, is the mystery of divine providence.  Understanding the will of God is not always easy, but it is usually easier in hindsight than in foresight.  That should lead us to reserving judgment on life’s experiences until the jury truly is in.  We would interpret the story of

Moses life falsely if we rushed to judgment after his murderous mistake early in chapter 2 of Exodus.  But would you buy a house if you were only allowed to see one of its rooms?  Would you buy a new car if you were permitted to see only its tires and tail lights?  Would you pass judgment on a book after reading only one paragraph?

 

Neither would I.  Good judgment requires broad vision.  Its not only true regarding the things I mentioned.  Its true in evaluating our life experiences.  “The end of the matter is better than its beginning” penned the wisdom writer.  “Be patient in affliction” echoed Saint Paul.  Be patient, and do not judge an experience too quickly.

 

I want to conclude this morning by illustrating this final lesson with a little fable:

 

Once there was an old man who lived in a tiny village.  Although poor, he was envied by all, for he owned a beautiful white horse.  Even the king coveted his treasure.  A horse like this had never been seen before—such was its splendor, its majesty, its strength.

 

People offered fabulous prices for the steed, but the old man always refused.  “This horse is not a horse to me,” he would tell them.  “It is a person.  How could you sell a person?  He is a friend, not a possession.  How could you sell a friend?”   The man was poor and the temptation was great.  But he never sold the horse.

 

One morning he found that the horse was not in the stable.  All the village came to see him.  “You old fool,” they scoffed, “we told you that someone would steal your horse.  We warned you that you would be robbed.  You are so poor.  How could you ever hope to protect such a valuable animal?  It would have been better to have sold him.  You could have gotten whatever price you wanted.  No amount would have been too high.  Now the horse is gone, and you’ve been cursed with misfortune.”

 

The old man responded, “Don’t speak too quickly.  Say only that the horse is not in the stable.  That is all we know; the rest is judgment.  If I’ve been cursed or not, how can you know?  How can you judge?”

 

The people contested, “Don’t make us out to be fools!  We may not be philosophers, but great philosophy is not needed.  The simple fact that your horse is gone is a curse.”

 

The old man spoke again.  “All I know is that the stable is empty, and the horse is gone.  The rest I don’t know.  Whether it be a curse or a blessing, I can’t say.  All we can see is a fragment.  Who can say what will come next?”

 

The people of the village laughed.  They thought that the man was crazy.  They had always thought he was a fool; if he wasn’t he would have sold the horse and lived off the money.  But instead, he was a poor woodcutter, an old man still cutting firewood and dragging it out of the forest and selling it.  He lived hand to mouth in the misery of poverty.  Now he had proven that he was, indeed, a fool.

 

After fifteen days, the horse returned.  He hadn’t been stolen; he had run away into the forest.  Not only had he returned, he had brought a dozen wild horses with him.  Once again the village people gathered around the woodcutter and spoke.  “Old man, you were right and we were wrong.  What we thought was a curse was a blessing.  Please forgive us.”

 

The man responded, “Once again, you go too far.  Say only that the horse is back.  State only that a dozen horses returned with him, but don’t judge.  How do you know if this is a blessing or not?  You see only a fragment.  Unless you know the whole story, how can you judge?  You read only one page of a book.  Can you judge the whole book?  You read only one word of a phrase.  Can you understand the entire phrase?

 

“Life is so vast, yet you judge all of life with one page or one word.  All you have is a fragment!  Don’t say that this is a blessing.  No one knows.  I am content with what I know.  I am not perturbed by what I don’t.”

 

“Maybe the old man is right,” they said to one another.  So they said little.  But down deep, they knew he was wrong.  They knew it was a blessing.  Twelve wild horses had returned with one horse.  With a little bit of work, the animals could be broken and trained and sold for much money.

 

The old man had a son, an only son.  The young man began to break the wild horses.  But after a few days, he fell from one of the horses and broke both legs.  Once gain the villagers gathered around the old man and cast their judgments.

 

“You were right,” they said.  “You proved you were right.  The dozen horses were not a blessing. They were a curse.  Your only son has broken his legs, and now in your old age you have no one to help you.  Now you are poorer than ever.”

 

The old man spoke again.  “You people are obsessed with judging.   Don’t go so far.  Say only that my son broke his legs.  Who knows if it is a blessing or a curse?  No one knows.  We only have a fragment.  Life comes in fragments.”

 

It so happened that a few weeks later the country engaged in war against a neighboring country.  All the young men of the village were required to join the army.  Only the son of the old man was excluded, because he was injured.  Once again the people gathered around the old man, crying and screaming that their sons had been taken.  There was little chance that they would return.  The enemy was strong and the war would be a losing struggle.  They would never see their sons again.

 

“You were right, old man,” they wept.  “God knows you were right.   This proves it.  Your son’s accident was a blessing.  His legs may be broken, but at least he is with you.  Our sons are gone forever.”

 

The old man spoke again.  “It is impossible to talk with you.  You always draw conclusions.  No one knows.  Say only this:  your sons had to go to war, and mine did not.  No one knows if it is a blessing or a curse.  No one is wise enough to know. Only God knows.”

 

The old man was right.  We only have a fragment.  Life’s bad events are only a page out of a grand book and we need to be slow about drawing conclusions.  I don’t know where the woodcutter learned his patience.  Perhaps it was from another woodcutter in Galilee, for it was the Carpenter of Nazareth who said it best:  “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.”  He should know.  He is the author of our story.  And the final chapter is in his hands.

 

Prepare Well, both mind and heart

Be Humble in Service

Accept God’s Grace

Acknowledge the Mystery of Divine Providence

 

Let’s pray:

 

Thank you, God, for the lessons we can learn from failure.  You know we have enough of them.  Help us to learn well and use, we pray, all of our life experiences redemptively.  Amen.