The story in church was about the children of Israel crossing the Red Sea. It happens to be one I wrote a song about forty years ago, that I still sing with children when I get a chance. Like this week with the preschoolers. They clap their hands on their thighs to make the thundering sound of horses galloping, and I supply the verses. They join in on the chorus. 

 

It could be argued that I do a disservice by dressing such a distressing piece of history with a frolicking tune. They were after all running for their lives. The Egyptian army was at their backs, and an impassable body of water lay before them. But God pulled off a miracle by parting the tide. In what is perhaps one of the top ten miracles in the Bible, thousands of Israelites escaped slavery by getting to the far side of the sea without a boat. Which is reason enough to clap.

 

That is by the way not the end of their troubles. Forty years of wandering lay between them and the Promised Land, and even then there were battles to fight. But I can sing because I know how it ends. 

 

It takes some effort for me to even get in touch with the terror and uncertainty that must have fueled their flight. As someone who has never been chased by soldiers, or surrounded by walls of seawater, I am at a loss. I guess it was scary. But I am more familiar with the pounding of anxious thoughts that keep me awake at night, or the sinking feeling of having failed at something I care about. The slavery of resentment hangs tenaciously at my ankles, and I feel flooded by indignation. 

 

But I too am destined for a miracle. Even if it takes forty years. So in the meantime I will keep singing.