© 2023 Evan D. Garner
Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video from the service can be seen here.
In November 1558, when Queen Mary died, the Church of England was in crisis. Thirty-five years earlier, Henry VIII, Mary’s father, had refused to accept the authority of the Pope, and Parliament had passed legislation making it clear that the English monarch alone was supreme head of the Church in his realm. When Henry died and his nine-year-old son Edward took the throne, Protestant leaders carried out further reforms in the boy-king’s name, stripping the church of many of the catholic practices that Henry had maintained. But, six years later, Edward became ill and died, clearing the way for his older and faithfully Catholic half-sister Mary to become queen. She undid virtually all the reforms put in place by her father and half-brother, including the act of Parliament that had made the monarch the supreme head of the Church.
Five years later, when Mary died, her half-sister Elizabeth ascended to the throne, and she and her Protestant allies began the work of reestablishing a Church of England that was separate from the Church in Rome. This time, however, the reformers had to act more gently in part because the nation was tired of flipping back and forth between Catholic and Protestant rulers but also because Elizabeth was a woman. One of the first acts passed by her Parliament was a new Act of Supremacy, modeled after the one her father had pushed through and which her half-sister had repealed. But, in this version, instead of calling Elizabeth the “supreme head” of the church—a title that upset both Pope-supporting Catholics and woman-skeptical Protestants—they identified the monarch as the “supreme governor” of the Church of England, and it has been the same ever since.
A rose by any other name might smell as sweet, but how can a woman fulfill her destiny as the leader of her people if they refuse to call her by her proper title? Deborah, whose leadership we hear about in today’s reading from Judges, would like a word. This short passage is the only selection from the Book of Judges that we encounter in our three-year lectionary, so we had better make the best of it.
You might have noticed that Deborah is identified first as a prophetess and then as the wife of Lappidoth. Some more recent translations of the Bible take out the gender-exclusive suffix and identify Deborah as the full prophet that she was, but almost all translations continue to label her as Lappidoth’s wife. Several scholars, however, including recent Tippy speaker Wil Gafney, suggest that the Hebrew, which literally means “woman of Lappidoth” or “woman of torches,” just as likely means “fiery woman” as “Lappidoth’s wife” and that, since prophets were rarely married, the attempt to define Deborah by a husband’s name is probably an overreach by those who were not accustomed to strong, independent women exercising authority. [1]
Even more remarkable is how the author of Judges goes out of his way to describe how Deborah judged Israel without actually calling her a judge. At this time in their history, as the name of this book of the Bible implies, God’s people were ruled by judges, a pre-monarchical title that obscures the fact that these leaders were less likely to rule on matters of law and more likely to lead an army into battle. In fact, among all the judges mentioned in the book, Deborah is the only one who is said to have settled disputes among her people. As Robert Alter notes, a better title for these leaders would be “chieftains,” though “Book of Chieftans” doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. [2] Perhaps the reason the author of Judges withholds that official title from Deborah is because, as a woman, she was less likely to ride out into battle with her people. But, if we expand today’s reading by only a few verses, we discover that that wasn’t the case either.
At the end of today’s reading, we hear Deborah order her general Barak to lead ten thousand troops to Mount Tabor, where they would fight against Sisera and Jabin’s army. In the very next verse, we hear Barak’s uncertain response. “If you will go with me,” he said to Deborah, “I will go, but if you will not go with me, I will not go.” To him, this mission against 900 iron chariots might have sounded like suicide. Or maybe he was simply unable to trust a woman commander. Regardless, Deborah would not allow his cowardice to thwart God’s plan, so she replied, “I will surely go with you; nevertheless, the road on which you are going will not lead to your glory, for the LORD will sell Sisera into the hand of a woman.”
After they had reached Mount Tabor, when Deborah perceived that the time to attack was right, she ordered Barak to lead his troops into the Wadi Kishon: “Up! For this is the day on which the LORD has given Sisera into your hand.” Her military insights proved effective. In the ensuing battle, God’s people routed their enemies. Amidst the chaotic fighting, Sisera got down from his chariot and ran away on foot, and Barak chased him. But, as Sisera approached the tent of one of his allies, a woman named Jael saw him and encouraged him to seek refuge inside.
Parched from the fighting, Sisera asked her for some water, but Jael went a step further, mothering the fugitive general by giving him milk to drink. “Stand at the entrance of the tent,” Sisera told his host, “and if a man comes and asks you if a man is [hiding] here, tell him no.” Then Jael, after having wrapped him up in a rug, snuck up to the great warrior, and, taking a tent peg and a hammer in her hands, she drove the tent peg through his temple and into the ground, killing him where he lay. When Barak finally showed up, Jael said to him with no small dose of irony, “Come, and I will show you the man whom you are seeking.” No glory came to Barak that day. It belonged to the women whom God had used to deliver God’s people, just as Deborah had prophesied.
Sometimes God gives us gifts that God’s people don’t want us to use. Sometimes God bestows talents upon individuals whom society will not allow to use them. Sometimes people who have been given the authority to speak for God will tell you that you had better bury your gifts in the ground or else you will be rejected for daring to show them off. But they are the ones whom God has rejected because God will never give you a gift that you are not supposed to use for God’s glory.
“You are the light of the world,” Jesus tells us. “A city built on a hill cannot be hid. People do not light a lamp and put it under a bushel basket; rather, they put it on a lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your father in heaven.”
You are the light of the world. In every generation, God uses those who have been overlooked by the powerful and mighty as vessels for God’s work in the world. It is always those who work outside the power structures of society who bring victory to God’s people. And, because of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, we know that there is no force strong enough to defeat us or hold us back. Nothing can overshadow God’s glory shining through us.
As disciples of Jesus, we are called not only to devote our gifts to God’s transformation of the world, but we are also called to celebrate those among us whose gifts might be buried out of fear. We must encourage those who have been told that their gifts are not welcome to let their lights shine until the world sees how God is showing up around us. We must tell them that they have no reason to fear because God’s gifts always belong where everyone can see them. Jesus teaches us to watch for the coming reign of God wherever it may be hiding and give all that we’ve got to be sure that that reign comes. Surely God’s reign comes when all of God’s children are able to use what God has given them for the glory of God.
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1. Gafney, Wilda C. Womanish Midrash. Westminster John Knox Press; Louisville: 2017, 97f10.
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