A Tall Fragile Tale

Genesis 11:1-9; Acts 2:1-21

I know it is Pentecost. Some of you wore red to remind me. After writing a new Pentecost sermon for 38 consecutive years, I have extinguished all creativity on that subject. It is the closest I will ever get to feeling like Leonard Cohen. He wrote “Hallelujah”, one of the greatest songs known to humankind. Unfortunately he kept adding verses to the original. By the time he got to verse 25 he had forgotten why he created the song in the first place. That is the way I feel about writing a 39^th sermon about Pentecost.

Fortunately the Old Testament text is the Tower of Babel. A misreading of Genesis 11 would have us believe the languages of the world originated with a failed attempt to build a tower to heaven. Add to the mix the words from Peter’s Pentecost sermon, “Everyone understood in his own language”, and many preachers would have you believe Pentecost restored the language the Tower of Babel debacle destroyed. Fortunately for you I am not just any preacher.

This tall tale has its origins in the folklore of Babylon. The original begins with an innocent question, “Why do other cultures not speak Babylonian?”  The Babylonian answer was obvious. The language of the gods was spoken only by Babylonians. Those who helped with the building of the great ziggurats were the children of the god Marduk. They spoke the holy language. The others were scattered to the far regions. They were not allowed to utter the holy words.

The exiled residents of Jerusalem spoke Hebrew. They were quite proud of their language and heritage and had no desire to assimilate into the Babylonian culture. Some very clever writer heard the story of the ziggurats and created a response which mocked the efforts of the Babylonians. Listen to the story as told with a Hebrew voice.

Once upon a time everyone spoke the same language. They migrated from the east and came to the great Tigris-Euphrates basin. The people said to each other, “Let’s make a name for ourselves. We will build a city with a great tower. If we don’t we shall be scattered throughout the earth.” So they began to build. But finding stone was hard work, so they substituted bricks. Not wanting to take the time to make quality mortar, they substituted bitumen, a low grade tar. God looked down at the people creating a tower with sub-grade materials. God knew it was only a matter of time before the tower would collapse upon itself. Its foundation was sand, not rock.   God said, “I will go down and multiply their language so they will not be able to finish their foolishness.” Frustrated, the people left the city and scattered throughout the region. The unfinished tower was called Babel because God confused their language.

The re-telling of this story is so simplistically complex. That is what makes any story great. Let’s start with the name of the tower. In the original story the tower and city were called Babylon, which means, “Gateway to the Gods”. The residents of the city saw themselves as the center of the universe. They had victories over the Assyrians and Egyptians. The story in Genesis shortens the name to Babel, which in Hebrew means, “to confuse”.

Second, notice the material that was used to build the tower. It was second rate. When we put our best foot forward, amazing results abound. But when we cut corners, disasters abound. The same is true of our commitment to God. When we claim that we will live our lives as a holy sacrifice and then take shortcuts, it is amazing how quickly our holy pilgrimage gets sidetracked.

But I have saved the best for last. God said, “I will scatter them.” From the beginning of time humans have feared being scattered. It takes us out of our comfort zone. We might encounter folks different from us. We might have to learn a new language to communicate. Scattering makes us fearful, even hateful. At first glance scattering is horrifying. But what happens when we are all the same?

We have just celebrated the 75^th anniversary of the landing at Normandy. Remember the ultimate goal of Nazi Germany? Hitler wanted to create a master race in which everyone had blue eyes and blond hair. Everyone would look like and think like their neighbor. But who landed at Normandy? The soldiers came from the UK, Canada, US, Poland, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Greece, Netherlands, Norway, Australia, South Africa and New Zealand. The American Cemetery at Colleville sur Mer includes Protestants, Roman Catholics and Jews. Buried in that sacred ground are Whites, Hispanic, African-Americans and Native Americans. In other words, it was those who were scattered who brought down the Third Reich.

Genesis 10:32, the verse just before the telling of the Tower of Babel Story reads, “These are the families of Noah. They became scattered all over the earth to become nations.” The text reveals that the fear of scattering expresses a resistance to God’s purpose for creation. The tower, in both stories, was an attempt to resist a divine directive of celebrating diverse opinions. Isn’t humanity always at its best when a variety of folks come together with a smorgasbord of ideas to solve difficult problems? Aren’t faulty solutions often the results of a lack of original thinking? Imagine if one person in the story had said, “Where I come from, stone last a lot longer than bricks.”

Believe it or not that brings me back to Pentecost. Peter was a fisherman with an extremely limited viewpoint. He stands before a crowd in Jerusalem, which is the center of his universe. But he remembers Jesus saying, “One day we are going to rebuild the Temple, but it won’t look anything like the old one.” Peter has a story that needs to be told and a vision he wants to share. Peter has no desire to go backwards. The resurrection has revealed God has chosen all of creation, not just one people.  But Peter is limited by his history, his culture, even his faith. Then his eyes focus. He is surrounded by folks who have been scattered. They came from Partha, Medes, Elam, Mesopotamia, Judea, Cappadocia, Pontus, Asia, Phrygia, Pamphylia, Egypt, Libya, Cyrene, Rome and Arabia.  Peter speaks only one language and probably had a horrible Galilean accent.  He is a hick from the sticks. Who cared what he had to say? The only thing Peter had going for him was he trusted God. Slowly Peter spoke and each person heard in his or her own language.

 This isn’t the creation of a new language. It’s like being at the UN with head sets. So listen in on what Peter said. “God has poured out the Spirit upon you in order that you might see visions and dream dreams.” Peter had the courage to announce, “What I have got to share is bigger than all of us. It can’t be limited to Jerusalem. It can’t be restricted to one voice. It is going to take every one of you to scatter throughout the world and spread the good news that God still blows a holy wind into our emptiness.”

The folks that day in Jerusalem may never have heard of Jesus but they had experienced chaos. They may not have known of the young prophet who had been killed, but they witnessed a voice filled with joy.  They might  not been raised in the religion of Moses, but they now heard of a God who offered hope instead of despair, visions instead of nightmares, life instead of death.  And they scattered, not out of fear, not out of self-preservation, not out of disbelief. They scattered because they wanted to run home and tell their families, and their friends, and even those folks they didn’t like very much what they had heard. They scattered, because the breath of God touched their souls, and they were not afraid.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah. 

Sing it with me.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.

Amen.

 

They Just Won't Shut Up!

Acts 16:16-34

        Paul was annoyed. I find that amusing because Paul has been annoying folks for over 2,000 years. Paul was upset because he was trying to have a meaningful conversation with the good folks of Philippi and every time he attempted to speak a young woman would scream, “These men are slaves of the most high God.” You would think Paul would have applauded such an introduction. But the problem was she never quit yelling. Every time Paul tried to speak, the woman interrupted. She was like a warm up band that refused to get off the stage. She would not shut up. The more she yelled, the madder Paul got. Finally Paul had enough. Suspecting she was possessed, Paul ordered the evil spirit to leave the girl. She immediately became mute and Paul proceeded to preach the gospel. End of story? No, it was only the beginning.      

        It seems the woman was born with the ability to tell the future.  She must have been quite good at it. A group of men had invested in her skills and were making a small fortune off her gift. Was it ethical for them to take advantage of her? Probably not. Was Paul out of line in shutting down their source of income? Notice how everything is so clear until there is a clash between morality and commerce. Regardless of the conclusions we draw, the men who owned the woman were furious. One minute they owned a cash cow. The next minute her milk had dried up. She was useless to them and they were furious. Now they wouldn’t shut up! They went to the local authorities and demanded restitution for their loss of income. Their complaint was quite simple, “These men are different from us and they are not abiding by our laws and customs. They are a menace to our way of life. We need to lock them up.”        

The magistrates agreed. Paul and Silas were stripped, beaten, and thrown into jail. Only Paul and Silas were now the ones who wouldn’t shut up. Once in jail they began praying and singing. It was after midnight and they were making such a racket no one in the jail could get any sleep. Then suddenly there was an earthquake. The walls of the prison collapsed. The shackles fell off all the prisoners. Now it was the jailer who wouldn’t shut up. He wailed, “Everyone has escaped. The magistrates will have my job. They will rebuild the prison and make me the first occupant. Someone give me a sword. Let me end my life right now.”

Paul interrupted his rant. “We are all here.” The jailer looked around and realized no one had left. He was overwhelmed with relief. Looking at his battered prisoners with more than curiosity he asked, “How can I get what you have got?” Then he took the prisoners into his home.

Such a cast of characters: a woman screaming epitaphs, businessmen screaming for profits, a jailer screaming for his life, and Paul and Silas praying very loudly. So who was the subject of Paul’s prayers? At first glance the answer seems obvious. Paul and Silas had almost been beaten to death. They obviously were giving thanks just to be alive. Or were they? I think Paul and Silas were praying for the woman, the owners, the magistrate, the folks who beat them, and the jailer who imprisoned them.

In the 1950’s and 1960’s during the civil rights movement members of the cause spent a lot of time in jail. This was where the greatest demonstration of faith and resistance took place. Folks who signed up to march were not just taught how to peacefully resist. They were taught to pray loudly.  A favorite catchphrase that filtered between the cells was, “Pray like Paul and Silas”. Everyone knew what this meant. You didn’t pray for your release. You prayed for the police. You prayed for the person who had dragged you through the streets. You prayed for the children who had spit on you. You prayed for the jailer who turned the key to your cell. You prayed without ceasing for those who hated you. You prayed late into the night. You prayed long and hard. You refused to shut up.  Silent prayer might be good for the soul, but prayers that break the sound barrier rock the foundations of a corrupt society.

So how is your prayer life? Do you pray out loud? Do you pray at all? Do you pray for yourself? Do you pray for your friends? Do you pray for your enemies? Do you pray for injustices? Do you pray that things will just stay the same?

        What would have happened if Paul and Silas had never prayed? Would there have been an earthquake? Would there have been a conversion of the jailer? Who knows? A question like that is beyond my pay grade. But I can share this.  I like to think of prayer as a solitary light that disturbs my darkness. So should I pray louder and disturb the darkness of others? Does praying out loud liberate or infuriate?   I imagine the men of commerce just wanted Paul to shut up?  But what about the jailer? What about the woman who lost her voice? What did they desire to hear?

        Maybe prayer is more than a solitary light. Maybe prayer is the pulse of life. If prayer is our confirmation of God’s existence then doesn’t prayer become our initial connection with the rest of God’s creation? How will the rejected woman, or the jailer, and particularly our enemies hear us if we don’t pray loudly and joyfully, and without ceasing?

        I know what you are thinking. We are Presbyterians. We are God’s Chosen Frozen. We pray quietly, respectfully, humbly, reverently, or we don’t pray at all.

        Maybe that’s why women continue to be abused? Maybe that’s why too often commerce is chosen over morality? Maybe that’s why frequently the customs of society don’t reflect the principles of God? Can you imagine what might happen if we started praying Very Loudly For Our WORLD?

        It might start bringing down some walls of oppression.

        To God be the Glory. Amen

Remembering Those Without Names

Joshua 8:18-25; John 14:27

 

        The most sobering walk I ever take occurs when I visit our national capital.  A favorite stroll which includes the Jefferson, Lincoln, and Washington Memorials is purposefully interrupted by a detour to the Vietnam Wall. I slowly and respectfully walk past 58,320 names etched into black granite. 58,320 lives….. 58,320 stories….. 58,320 tears wept each time we remember.   For folks of my generation just the word Viet Nam stimulates conversations filled with both confusion and delusion. 45 years after the signing of the Paris Accords, like the monument itself, Vietnam remains an unhealed wound, particularly to many of the families of those 58,320. The wall insures their names will never be forgotten. Tomorrow wreaths of remembrance will be placed throughout our nation. I pray we also remember those whose names will never be etched in granite.

        Despite attempts by poets like Tennyson to glorify combat, war is a raging inferno inspired by fear and duty.  It makes boys old men. Is war justified? Should war be celebrated? Certainly you have grappled with those questions.  Is war holy? That depends on which book of the Bible you choose to read.

        The Old Testament was created over a period of a thousand years. Stories which may or may not have been factual were shared around the campfire until eventually priests and scribes transcribed them in scrolls and the stories were declared holy. What we often forget is that some ancient truths were neither universal nor everlasting. Holy Scripture corrects itself. Today it is OK to eat ham sandwiches. Women are allowed to worship with men. Slaves no longer occupy our balcony.  Rules for waging holy war during the time of Joshua radically changed by the time Micah served as a prophet of the Lord.  

        We have all sung about Joshua and the battle of Jericho. It is an ancient story told by a culture which believed it was sinful to be merciful. The Israelites entered the Promised Land. God proclaimed their venture holy and declared there was to be no trace left of the original inhabitants of the land.  On the seventh day the army of Israel marched around the city seven times, they blew their trumpets, and the walls “came a’tumbling down”. The slaughter began.  Hear the word of the Lord. “They killed every man and women in the city. Then they killed the livestock and burned the city.  Rahab and her family were spared because she had hid the Hebrew spies who had earlier entered the city.”

        But one of the soldiers, Achan, kept some of the gold for himself. In the next battle against the people of Ai the Israelites were defeated because of Achan’s sin. But Ai’s victory was only temporary. God said to Joshua, “You are to destroy Ai. Nothing is to be left.” A second battle takes place and to quote Joshua, “Eight thousand men, women, and children were slaughtered by the swords of the Israelites.” In ancient Israel that is the way war was conducted because that is the way the cultures that surrounded Israel conducted war. No one expected mercy from the Assyrians or the Babylonians and none was given.

        Enter Micah, and then Isaiah, and finally Jeremiah. From Joshua to King Josiah the implementation and destruction of war was never questioned. It was a sacred adventure. The names of the warriors were etched in the Holy Scrolls. When the names were read the people gave thanks to God for the heroes that protected the nation. But then Micah raised a question concerning the holiness of war. Isaiah prayed the next king would favor peace over conquest. Jeremiah cried out that no one remembered the innocent women and children slaughtered when the warriors went to war. The words of the prophets fell on deaf ears. But they were written down and remain a witness to those whose names have been forgotten.

        Throughout the years, as civilizations have allegedly progressed, philosophers have struggled with rules of engagement. As any who have served in the armed forces know, the Geneva and Hague conventions are historical rules aimed at limiting the overreaching brutality of mortal combat. The outline for these rules was created by Thomas Aquinas, a 13^th century monk. Aquinas declared war must have a just cause, must be the last resort, must be declared by proper authorities, and must be responsible for noncombatants. Unfortunately as history records, war is not a sport brought to a conclusion through the blowing of a whistle. War quickly emerges into a moral fog in which truth and trust are the early casualties.

        The victims of this fog are the ones we honor tomorrow. Some have their names etched in stone. Some have been forgotten. Those we remember heard the call of a nation and because of their sense of duty, or patriotic pride, or fear, or cultural pressure, or a combination of all of the above, lost their lives. We honor their sacrifice.

        But the forgotten also pay an eternal cost. In the last ten years civil wars in Africa have claimed ten civilians for every combatant. This is not a recent phenomenon. In 1898 Mark Twain the humorist was not funny when reflecting on a possible conflict with Spain. Remembering our Civil War he wrote, “We will lay waste to humble homes with a hurricane of fire wringing the hearts of unoffending widows with unavailing grief leaving their children to wander hungry and unfriended through the waste of their desolated lands.”

(Stop)

        I thank God that one day out of 365 has been set aside to remember the sacrifice of every man and woman whose name has been etched in black granite.

        I thank God that on this day prophets like Micah, Isaiah, Jeremiah and Twain remind us of the victims of war whose stories are often forgotten or dismissed.

        But most of all I give thanks for the words of Jesus who said, “Peace I give you. I do not give you the peace of the world. Do not let your hearts be afraid.”

        How often in the annals of history has the prelude of war been the shrill voice of those preaching fear and anxiety? How often could war been avoided if those voices had been calmed by offers of forgiveness or attempts at reconciliation? The peace offered us by the world too often results in the building of granite walls.  The peace offered by Christ breaks down walls.

        On this Memorial Weekend let us honor the dead. Let us remember the names etched in stone and the names forgotten. Then let us work for peace, not as the world desires it, but a peace that transcends the evil intentions of anxiety and fear.   

        In the name of Christ, the Prince of Peace, Amen.   

Stories, Not Arguments, Change Lives

Acts 11:1-18

“Stories, not arguments, change lives”

 

        The Apostle Peter was not only a great disciple, he was a pretty good Jew. Both religiously and culturally, he was observant of Jewish Law. Peter was a perfect example of how religious and cultural beliefs are often homogenized to create dangerous habits which we bless as holy.

        For some very good reasons, the cultures of the Middle East followed similar food laws. Even today, one would not offer a ham sandwich to a Jew or a Muslim. The reason for this was a dietary reality which evolved into a religious custom. Spoiled meat makes one sick. In ancient times, most folks in the Middle East had not developed the technique to preserve certain meats such as pork. Therefore it was believed if pork made you sick it must be sinful to eat it. The fact that the Greeks and Romans had learned to correctly cure pork had very little bearing on this ancient Jewish custom. They were gentiles. What could they possibly know anything about the mind of God?

        Another curiosity concerning the Jews is all males were circumcised at birth. This was done to properly identify the child as a member of God’s community. There were no exceptions. In order to be a Jew, one must be circumcised. This action was understood to have been commanded by God but perhaps this “command” also came with a great deal of cultural pressure. Unlike Christians, who are commanded by Christ to baptize the world, Jews have never aggressively involved themselves in evangelism. Courting gentiles was seen as a detriment to the purity of their culture. Besides, how many non-Jews would want to go through this initiation?

        Peter, a circumcised, non-pork eating Jew, was struggling with both the commandment of Jesus and his cultural upbringing which suggested such as action would be against the will of God. Members of the church in Jerusalem debated the nature of this new movement. Would converts become an extension of their Jewish faith or were they something altogether different? Could followers of Christ still remain Jewish? The debates raged into the night. Paul seemed determined to take his story of conversion to Jews living in the Gentile world. What was to stop Greeks and Romans from desiring to hear Paul’s good news?  Where on earth was the new church headed?

        In order to escape the debate, Peter made a trip to Joppa. There he had an amazing dream. He saw heaven opening up and a feast being laid before him. Only the food offered was not lox and bagels. God offered a banquet of pork and all other kinds of unclean meats. Peter protested, only to hear God say, “What God made clean, you must not profane.”

        Peter awoke greatly puzzled by the dream, but only for a moment. Men appeared at his door claiming they had been sent to ask Peter to follow them to Caesarea and meet with a prominent Roman who wanted to know about Jesus. Ignoring his traditions, Peter followed the men, met with Cornelius, and testified to him about Christ. That day Cornelius asked that his whole family be baptized. Peter, remembering his dream, baptized the uncircumcised gentile and the rest of his family.

Then Peter made a bee line to Jerusalem. Finding the council still engaged in debate over their mission to Gentiles, Peter quieted the crowd and told them his story. He ended it by saying, “Who was I to hinder God?”

A hush fell over the crowd. Then they praised God saying, “God has given life even to the Gentiles.”    (stop)

I believe, more often than not, stories, not arguments, change lives. Every culture has the habit of forming their beliefs out of its tradition. That’s why conversion from those traditions is so hard. We have all the facts and sometimes even Bible verses to support our cultural conclusions. And then we have a dream or hear a story that makes us reconsider what is holy.

Some of you are old enough to remember when only men could be ordained as ministers in the Presbyterian Church.  In 1965, Hanover Presbytery ordained Rachel Henderlite as a minister of Word and Sacrament. I remember being a bit outraged over the fact that a woman could be a preacher. I asked my father what qualified her to be a minister. He started out with her qualifications. “She is a graduate of Agnus Scott. She received a Masters from New York Theological Seminary. She has a Ph.D from Yale. She teaches Applied Christianity at the Presbyterian School of Christian Education and has written five books.”

I interrupted him, “But she is still a woman!”

“And so is your Aunt Evelyn.”

My dad did not need to repeat the story of my aunt becoming the first woman elder in Blue Ridge Presbytery. He did not have to remind me of the difficulties she encountered once she was awarded this distinction.  I knew my aunt well. I knew her as an intelligent, faith filled woman who was a blessing to her church. In my eyes no one was more qualified to be an elder than my Aunt Evelyn. I stepped back from my previous position, convinced it was OK for Rachel Henderlite to follow in the footsteps of my aunt.

That might have been my first conversion, but it was not my last. Being a proud white Anglo-Saxon Protestant, I am not ashamed of my heritage. I am not a racist. None of us are, at least in our own eyes. Logically I knew all men and women were created equal. But deep down I knew God had created me a cut above anyone else.  The proof of my ignorance came at church where everyone looked just like me.

In college I developed a relationship with a fellow student named Ballard Lee. Ballard had completed two years of college before being drafted. After two years in the Army, including a tour in Viet Nam, Ballard enrolled as a junior at King. Ballard was 6’7’’ and weighed around 240 pounds. He played power forward on King’s basketball team. Having become somewhat enlightened in my racial stereotyping, I was delighted when Ballard came to King because now we had two blacks starting on our team. I went to all the games, home and away, as the Tornadoes ran through its conference schedule. One day on our way to class I said to Ballard, “You are a man among boys on the basketball court.” He stopped, placed his huge black hand on my shoulder, smiled and said, “I am a man on any court. I think you are the one who needs to grow up.”

Those words were not spoken out of anger or resentment. They were words of truth spoken in love by someone who understood God a whole lot better than I. Ballard knew if I was going to travel God’s road I needed to revisit some of my presumed truths.

Jesus said to the disciples, “I give you a new commandment that you love one another.” Karen Armstrong in her book The Spiral Staircase notes that in most religious traditions, faith is not about belief but about practices. There are so many things that we practice as Christians that might not have anything at all to do with Christ. Being a good Christian I once questioned the credibility of folks who didn’t happen to be male or white. I judged rather than loved, causing me to say and think some rather foolish things. I give thanks for stories that cleansed and corrected my vision.

I suspect we all have our cultural idiosyncrasies that keep us from fully embracing our neighbors with the love of God. While some churches in our denomination continue to be embroiled in arguments concerning sexual orientation, this congregation has a story that has helped to define us as the Church of Jesus Christ. Rather than being compromised by a shallow reading of a Levitical law, we embraced the command to love one another.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if instead of identifying folks as “gentiles” we could encounter them as Christ has always encountered us? Imagine greeting each other without prejudgment, without cultural bias, without suspicions.  Imagine simply greeting others with the peace of Christ.

I know we live in a dangerous world. There are a lot of crazy folks out there. But sometimes it is our preconceived godly practices that lights the fuse of anger or hate. Or in the words of my friend, “Sometimes we are the ones who need to grow up.”

For the life of me I can’t remember Jesus saying, “They will know you are Christians if you believe the right things.” I seem to remember what Jesus said was, “Love each other, as I have loved you, and everyone will know you are my disciples.”                                     

                                                 To God be the glory.  Amen.

Walking Through the Darkest Valley

Psalm 23:4

 

        I have always had heroes. My first was Ted Williams. Some of you might remember the name. He played left field for the Boston Red Sox. Somewhere around the age of six I became convinced that no game was more perfect than the one whose objective was to go home. Some folks loved Mickey Mantle. The ones with the best eye for talent adored Willie Mays. But I fell in love with Ted Williams. We had nothing in common. He was left-handed, born in San Diego, and stood six feet three. I was a right-headed Georgian who was almost three foot six.  It hardly mattered. When Williams swung a bat it was poetry in motion. I was ten when he retired and his absence left a hole in my life. It was later I learned Williams had a darkness in his soul that dimmed the brilliance of his career.

        It took me a couple of years to get over my love of Ted Williams. I courted Luis Aparicio until I learned he didn’t spell his first name correctly. Ernie Banks played for the wrong team. No real Cardinal fan could root for a Cubbie. Eventually my heroes moved from the sporting field to the political arena. In 1968, in my youthful heart, no one seemed a more perfect candidate for the presidency than Bobby Kennedy. He was young, spoke a language I could understand, and had moved from the shadow of his brother. Bobby even had a law degree from the University of Virginia. But his ascension to the top of the political spectrum was destroyed by an assassin’s bullet. A darkness in America’s soul extinguished what might have been.

        That is the problem with heroes. We embrace them in the light of day. They rise beyond our expectations only to fall victim to the darkness, often leaving us wounded.

        I suspect David grew up worshiping heroes. While he was destined to be a king, he was born a shepherd. I imagine one of David’s early heroes was King Saul. The king was a giant of a man. When fully dressed for battle Saul cut a figure anyone would admire. But David would soon discover his hero was flawed. Saul desperately fought and finally succumbed to his inner demons. Like Ted Williams, the king was defined not by his valor on the field but his insecurities when surrounded by the darkness.

        Perhaps David considered Jonathan to be among his heroes. The son of Saul was young, dashing, and David’s best friend. Everyone believed Jonathan would be a worthy successor to his father. But like Kennedy, Jonathan was struck down. He died in a battle against the despised Philistines. The deaths of Jonathan eased David’s path to the throne. But it left him wary of the power of darkness.

        I grew up imagining David the shepherd boy composing the 23^rd Psalm. Sitting alone with his flocks he would seem to have had ample time to compose lyrical poems.  All of the components of the verse are before us. Green pastures and still waters are his playground. At night dark valleys stand in opposition to the safety of his sheep. But then we encounter verse five. “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” These words transcend the naiveté of a young boy counting the hours until sunset.

        I now believe David composed the Shepherd’s Psalm as a reflection on a long and arduous life. He had not desired the throne but once anointed he fought to secure it. Like his childhood heroes, David was not without flaws. He committed adultery and murder, excusing both actions as permissible.  He struggled with friends and family members. He disappointed those who loved him the most. At times he was at odds with God. Yet despite his tragedies, David experienced mercy.

        I struggle with reconciliation, particularly if the person who has fallen from grace was a former hero. Ted Williams’s career batting average was .344. He was the last player to hit over .400 in a season. Yet his temper left him hopelessly flawed.  In my adolescent world where everything was hopelessly black and white, mercy was not on option.

        I encountered the same blindness when reflecting on the turbulent year of 1968. Bobby Kennedy was not the only young person slain by an assassin’s bullet that year. Martin Luther King was only 39 years old. Both were murdered by a toxic hate in our society that enflamed the unbalanced judgment of two killers seeking inglorious fame. My anger was not limited to Sirhan Sirhan or James Earl Ray. My forgiveness has yet to be bequeathed on those participating in that dialogue of hatred.

        That is why I cling to the 23^rd Psalm. It was never intended to be a poem of comfort read at the graveside. It is the confession of a tamed cynic. It is never easy to deal realistically with the moral confusion of the day. The same could be said of the chaotic days of David’s reign. He was King. He could have declared history be written from the perspective of his pen. Yet he remembered the darkness. His first hero was plunged into chaos from the weight of the throne. David’s first son plunged Israel into anarchy because of Absalom’s desire for the throne. David’s mortal sins were excused because he sat on the throne.  David desired still waters but his reign was marked by turbulence. So he writes, “I will walk into the valley of darkness but I will not fear because God will be with me.”

        Childhood heroes cannot mend our brokenness because they are also flawed. Perfect societies cannot birth utopia because an ideal social order has never existed. We can rationalize our fears, we can lay blame on others but that will not heal us. Knowing the cost would be tremendous David chose only one companion to accompany him on his walk into the darkness. This walk did not change David’s sketchy past, but it did transform his future. Such is the power of God’s mercy.

        The old king, no longer a worshiper of heroes but a hero worshipped, prepared a dinner attended by his enemies. Imagine sitting down to break bread with folks who want to kill you. In attendance was a traitorous general, a former wife who hated him, and a son who believed he deserved to be king. Each had loved David, but no longer. Each expected to be dead before the evening festivities had concluded.  But this aging king finally understood the meaning of mercy and grace. David had spent his entire life following heroes and thirsting for power. In the end all David desired was the mercy of God and the forgiveness of those he had wounded. It was not his exploits in battle that secured the legacy of King David. It was his revelation that people cannot co-exist if they refuse to display acts of mercy toward each other.

        An ancient man, weary with intrigue but full of life turned to those who hated him and whispered, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow us the rest of our days if we dwell in God’s presence …….. together.”

        May we go and do likewise.                Amen.