A Bad Dream
“I wanted it all,” the middle-aged man confessed, his hands open wide, his head pointed down and shaking. “I wanted a super ethical job, so that I could feel like I was making a real difference in the world. And I also wanted to be super rich; I wanted to make more money than all my friends and be at the top of the ladder. I wanted a loving wife who was faithful to me. And I also wanted the freedom to…you know, meet other people. I wanted the comforts of a quiet home in the suburbs, where I could play catch with my son in the backyard. And I also wanted the thrills of nights on the town and flights to tourist hotspots across the world.
“I wanted everything. I guess that’s the American dream, right? Freedom and the pursuit of happiness? But for me, it was a bad dream. A nightmare. The more I pursued happiness, the more I unraveled. I became a master manipulator, but that meant I was always hiding something, always lying about something, always treating other people as objects or obstacles. It was exhausting. I was running myself ragged. And it was deeply unsatisfying—like trying to quench your thirst with salt water.
“Today, things are different. I learned through hard experience that life is actually richer within limits. Before, I chased what I didn’t have, and I couldn’t keep up with what I’d ‘got.’ I didn’t know who I was. Now, I’m walking only one path instead of four or five. And the great thing is, I feel free.”
“The Gods of Egypt”
When I read our scripture for today earlier this week, something jumped out at me that I had never considered before. We typically tell the story of the Israelites in Egypt as a tale of slaves and oppressors. And we’re not wrong. This is effectively how Moses commands the people to remember the story: “Remember this day on which you came out of Egypt, out of the house of slavery” (Ex 13:3). But the way God tells the story suggests an additional dimension that is often overlooked: “For I will pass through the land of Egypt that night, and…on all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgments” (Ex 12:12). In other words, God is ultimately fighting not against the “flesh and blood” of the Egyptian oppressors, but against the “gods of Egypt”—or as Paul would later put it, “against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil” (Eph 6:12).
By highlighting this spiritual dimension of the story, I do not mean to dismiss or diminish the horrors of physical enslavement (whether of the Israelites or any other person or people). I mean only to point out and remember that the real roots of these horrors are spiritual, and therefore the real struggle is ultimately spiritual, as Paul said.
What I realized this time when I read the story is that the Israelites are not the only people who are enslaved. What enslaved the Israelites, enslaved their oppressors too: the gods of Egypt.
And what were the gods of Egypt? I imagine they are the same gods who afflicted the man whose confession we heard earlier, gods like Greed, Impatience, Lust, and Anger. I imagine the devil doesn’t discriminate between nations or flags and that the gods of Egypt are not too different from the gods of the “American Dream.” We may have done away here with the “peculiar institution” as it was once obliquely called, but the god of greed that protected that brutality for centuries is still worshiped here. And the other gods? Anger and Hatred are worshiped daily at the altar of partisan politics, transforming the ballot box into a battleground. Lust is routinely worshiped at the altar of the screen, which is everywhere, even in our hands, always multiplying our desires. Impatience gathers devotees at the altar of technology, where we are conditioned to expect instant gratification and solutions to every problem.
“Remember!”
How exactly does God execute judgment against “the gods of Egypt”? I suppose this question is open for debate. Some people might read the story at face value and say that the plagues and the drowning of the Egyptian army in the sea are God’s judgment. But it’s difficult for me to read these experiences as God’s judgment, because it’s difficult for me to see Jesus in them. I have trouble envisioning Jesus afflicting a people with plague after plague and then massacring them at the sea. I believe that Jesus is what God looks like (cf. John 1; Col 1:15)—or that, as Paul said, “in [Jesus] all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things” (Col 1:20). So, if I have trouble seeing Jesus in something, I have trouble seeing God there too.
I’m more inclined to read God’s judgment against “the gods of Egypt” along the lines of Paul’s insistence that “our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against…the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil” (Eph 6:12). And God’s first line of attack in this spiritual struggle seems clear to me: “Remember!” God says in our scripture, again and again, in so many ways. It is God’s battle cry, we might say. “Remember!”
To begin, God commands the Israelites to remember their deliverance from slavery by setting their calendars and their clocks by it. “This month,” God tells Moses, “shall mark for you the beginning of months.” In other words, for the Israelites, the new year wasn’t a time to say “good riddance” to the old year. It was a time to remember God’s liberating love, to trust that God would liberate in the year to come as God had done in years past. Elsewhere in scripture, God likewise commands the Israelites to keep the Sabbath day holy and to remember that they were slaves and God delivered them (Deut 5:12-15). So, week after week, year after year, the Israelites are remembering that they were once slaves but no more—God’s love has liberated them from the gods that had enslaved them.
God amplifies this call to remember by prescribing specific ritual observances, such as preparing the Passover lamb and unleavened bread and eating them in symbolic haste, all of which invite the participants to relive the story and to claim it as their own. Yes, God liberated Moses and the people in the past, but it wasn’t a one-time thing. God is always liberating, again and again. This is why, centuries later, when the child asks, “Why are we eating unleavened bread?” the parent can respond, “It is because of what the Lord did for me”—not Moses and our ancestors, but me—“when I came out of Egypt” (Ex 13:8). We all have our own Egypts and our own stories of salvation.
I wonder if God puts such an emphasis on memory because God knows that, although the Israelites will leave Egypt in body, they will always be able to return in their hearts. In the wilderness, they will cry out that life was better for them in Egypt and long for a return. Later, the prophets will warn them that their waywardness is in fact a spiritual return to the misery of Egypt (e.g., Hos 8:13), that in their greed and impatience and anger, they risk becoming enslaved again. To remember, week in, week out, that they were once slaves of these powers but God loved them and liberated them, is a powerful assault on the gods of Egypt.
“What We Used to Be Like, What Happened, and What We Are Like Now”
If you think about it, this remembering resembles the tactic employed in the confession we heard earlier. I withheld an important piece of information when I first shared the confession. It is actually a story I heard once in a twelve-step meeting, where sharing is invited according to the following guideline: “Our stories disclose in a general way what we used to be like, what happened, and what we are like now.”
What is so powerful in this practice, is that the memory is never just a ritual. It is concretely connected to a person’s life—to an Egypt; to certain gods, such as greed and impatience; and ultimately to a salvation that they can point to and say, “This is what the Lord did for me.”
The early followers of Christ quickly developed their own habit of remembering, particularly at tables, where broken bread and a shared cup reminded them of the body and blood and love of their lord and savior. Some of them noticed that the Last Supper itself happened at the time of Passover. How fitting! they thought. What God had done in the past in Egypt, God was doing for them right then in Christ. They each had their own story, of course. They each could say, in different ways, “This is what the Lord did for me.”
As we gather at the table this week, I’d invite you to remember how the love of Christ has rescued you. This means remembering what life used to be like under the gods that enslaved you, what happened in Christ, and what you are like now. And it might mean recognizing that there are other gods threatening to enslave you still, and that we stand ever needful of God’s love.
Prayer
In the place of my prayer, I’d invite you to join me in a short, simple, prayerful exercise of reflection:
Remember what life was like—is like—under the slavery of the gods of this world. Remember the cycle of hurt and disappointment.
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Remember how Christ changed—is changing—your life. Remember the giftedness of your freedom, the grace of it, how Christ has done for you what you could not do for yourself.
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Remember the freedom of life you have enjoyed in Christ. Remember the peace, the security, the hope, even in trials and difficulties.
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Remember that Christ is with you always, and no gods of this world can separate you from him.
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Amen.
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