Today’s
passage is very artfully, very skillfully
written. It’s almost cinematic in its structure, proceeding in four acts. The
first introduces the boy Samuel, and establishes that he’s ministering to God
under the tutelage of the high priest Eli. Good, solid exposition, introducing
the two characters and their relationship. Then, in one fell sentence: we’re
told the predicament Israel is in: “The word of the Lord was rare in those
days; visions were not widespread.” And what a depressing line that is, what a dreary
description of the state of the nation of Israel. The word of the Lord was rare, as in hard to find,
not available: the same word that blew across the waters at creation . . . Does
that mean that God’s ongoing creation had come to a halt? Does it mean God will
no longer do new things?
And
what’s more, visions—which are, after all, the primary way God communicates that word—visions just
aren’t happening much any more, folks aren’t dreaming much, and when they do, they dream about silly
things like kittens or who won the National Falafel-eating Contest, stuff like
that. (For the record, it was some guy from Edom—those Edomites love their falafel).
And
the situation is especially
dire for a people like the Israelites whose entire life, entire identity revolves around
being the people of a particular God, and it’s felt especially keenly at the
Temple, ground-central of their religion, and that’s where scene two opens, in
the Temple, with both Eli and Samuel lying down, Eli in his own quarters and
Samuel in the Temple itself, where the Lamp of God has not in fact gone out . . . And is it a coincidence that Samuel is
in there where God’s light still shines, however dim, and Eli, head
perceiver-of-light, is snug in his darkened bedroom? And is it another coincidence that the Hebrew word
for lamp—nehr—is similar
to nahr, the word
for boy?
Anyway,
Eli is nearly bald and with an old man’s creak in his bones, and not only are
all his joints hurting, but he can barely see anymore, which again is ironic,
because he is the chief priest and prophet, the highest civil and religious authority, and thus seer of visions, in the
land. And a deep voice calls out to Samuel—not Eli, but Samuel, and we know it’s the Lord right
off the bat, but Samuel—who’s never met him—doesn’t. And maybe that’s why
Samuel isn’t scared half out of his wits, like I’d be, or maybe he’s just used
to Eli calling out in the night, because that’s who he thinks it is . . . And
he runs to his bedroom, wakes him up, and says “Here I am, for you called me.”
And even though Eli’s brain is muddled with sleep, you’d think the
discerner-in-chief would immediately
figure out who it is that’s calling, but he doesn’t, not at first anyway, and
shoos the boy back to bed. “I didn’t call,” he says, “Go lie down”
And
the thing about Biblical Hebrew, in which the Old Testament is written, is that
it’s a language of verbs—not like in New Testament Greek, where nouns, are more prominent—but
Biblical Hebrews’ a language of verbs, and there are two verbs controlling the
action. One is “to lie down”—sh’cav
in Hebrew—and the other is “to call,” or k’rah.
And these two verbs control this part of the narrative, it’s almost like
they’re battling, back and forth. The Lord calls, Samuel’s told to lie down,
call, lay down, call, lay down. We get the impression that there’s too much
laying-down been going on in the Temple lately, and that maybe Eli’s had
something to do with it. But finally the old man gets it, he understands who’s
been calling the boy, and once again he instructs Samuel to lay down, but this
time to answer the Lord, and maybe even kiss up a little: speak, for your servant is listening.
And
thus endeth Act 2: Eli’s finally figured it out, and we know something’s gonna
happen now, And
sure enough, Act Three opens with the Lord calling again, only this time it’s
personal, because there he is, standing there in the flesh, at the foot of the
bed. Seems God’s come to make sure that he’s listened to this time, and Samuel
does as his mentor has told him, and invites God to speak.
And
I know we’re supposed to understand that Eli’s the problem here—after all, his
sons have dissed the Lord, they’ve run amuck, and Eli hasn’t done anything
about it—I realize were supposed to understand that it’s Eli’s fault and all,
but you know what? I kind of sympathize with him. I can understand getting
tired and cranky, and just wanting to hold up in bed. Happens to me more and
more lately. And kids—you can’t control them, can you? Especially adult ones
like Eli’s. They’re gonna do what they’re gonna do, and it’s better if you let
them do it, let them make their own mistakes.
But
I also know that I’m overlaying a very modern set of concerns, a modern kind of
psychology, over this ancient story, which is almost three thousand years old.
Back in that time, fathers controlled sons, at least theoretically—see the
prodigal son for a different opinion—and Eli was his sons’ spiritual boss, as
head priest he represented God to his subordinate priests. And in fact, one of
the things that’s in the subtext of this passage is that Eli’s family’s
hereditary post as the Temple priesthood was in jeopardy. And there probably
wasn’t much “live and let live, they’re gonna do what they’re gonna do”
sentiment going around either. One did what duty required in the service of
your Lord, whether that Lord was the head of the household or creator of the
universe.
So
God tells Samuel what’s going to happen to Eli’s house—i.e., his family—from that day
forward: “I am about to punish them forever . . . “ Punish his house, all his
servants and cousins and children and grandchildren. Forever. And today we have
a hard time with this, with God’s Old Testament propensity to punish folks for
what their parents did. God is always punishing children and their children’s
children for something their ancestors did. And not just within families,
either: the prophets—Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel—were always announcing God’s
judgment upon whole societies for what their ancestors or current-day leaders
did.
Again,
we know this is a combination of (a) a belief that God is behind everything
that happens, good or bad and (b) the inescapable fact that what people and
cultures do have lasting, generations-long consequences. See slavery and
genocide in this country, for example, the consequences of which continue to
bedevil us two centuries after the fact.
But
what I want you to notice is the first thing that God says, here in Act Three,
after he calls Samuel, that is: “See, I am about to do something in Israel that
will make both ears of anyone who hears of it tingle.” Tingle! And not just one
ear, either: it’s a two-ear situation. What God is about to do is gonna make
everybody sit up and notice, it’s gonna shake everything up. God’s word is
gonna come once again upon the Land of Israel, and don’t you forget it.
As
you might have noticed, this is a passage about God’s call, about one person
answering it and another ignoring it. And it wouldn’t be a call sermon without
everybody’s favorite call quote, the one from Frederick Buechner that he claims
he can’t remember ever saying. “The place God calls you to,” he says “is the
place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” And it seems
to me to be especially relevant here: Israel hadn’t heard God’s word, it hadn’t
experienced that deep gladness, and they were hurting for it. Maybe it was
Eli’s fault, maybe the lawlessness of his family was causing it, as the author
of First Samuel suggests, or maybe the nation had just stopped listening.
Whatever it was, the word of God was scarce, revelation had dried up, and
visions were rare in the land.
But
one guy listened, in spite of the all the impediments against it, in spite of
his own teacher not understanding for the longest time. And when he did, he
opened himself and all of Israel up to God’s doing,to the possibility of
excitement and revelation in the land.
And
I wonder: how long has it been since something God has done has made you tingle with excitement?
How long has it been since the hairs have stood on your arm, since you knew you
were in the presence of the ineffable, since you shivered with excitement at
the glory of the divine? Has it been a while? Have the dull pressures of the
everyday gotten to you? Has the daily grind ground out all the wonder in you? I
know it does me if
I don’t take time, every day, to listen for God’s word, to look for it in all
its myriad places.
This
time of year, when the frost is hard on the ground, when we huddle indoors like
so many burrowing ants . . . in a time in our country when it seems as if
things are falling apart, I challenge us all to go out into God’s world keeping
our eyes and ears open, keeping alert for the word of God in the world. And if
we do, maybe our eyes will be dazzled, and our ears—both of them!—will tingle
at the wonder of the divine. Amen.
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