Joshua 24:14-28
David A. Davis
August 5, 2018
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This morning I am finishing up our summertime encounter with the Book of Joshua. We started with that story of Rahab and the spies. Then it was the procession of the people of Israel across the Jordan River into the Promised Land after forty years in the wilderness. Last week, it was how just inside the Promised Land that manna from heaven stopped and the people of Israel ate the crops of the land of Canaan. Today we fast-forward to the end of Joshua. Joshua’s last word. His last sermon. When I say last, I mean last. The Bible says that after Joshua gathered all the people of Israel for this sermon, after he spoke these words, after these things, Joshua died. It doesn’t necessarily mean he finished the sermon, said “amen,” and dropped right then and there. But it is, these words, this gathering, it is Joshua’s last act as the leader of the people of Israel.

It was quite a scene. Joshua gathers all the tribes of Israel at Shechem. He summons the elders, the judges, the officers. It was everyone. All of Israel together and as it is recorded, “they presented themselves before God and Joshua said to all the people, ‘thus says the Lord…’” Joshua speaks the word of the Lord and begins with the history of all that God has done. Abraham. Isaac. Jacob. Esau. Moses Aaron. The flight from Egypt. The long time in the wilderness. The crossing over into the Promised Land. He preaches with the first person pronouns referring to God. “I brought you… I rescued you… I gave you… I gave you a land on which you had not labored, and towns you had not built, and you live in them. You eat the fruit of the vineyards…that you did not plant.” What comes next, the next word of the Lord from Joshua to the people, what comes next is the “now therefore.”

Now therefore revere the Lord. Now therefore serve the Lord. Now therefore put away the gods your ancestors served beyond the River. Now therefore, choose this day whom you will serve. As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord. That last part is what gets remembered most. As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord. That’s the part that gets memorized and poster-ized and cross-stitch-ized. That’s the part that gets put on the decorative plate that hangs in your grandparent’s house. As for me and my house we will serve the Lord.

With their response the people make it all sound like such a slam dunk, such a no brainer. “Far be it for us that we should forsake the Lord to serve other Gods.” It is as if they are offended by Joshua’s exhortation, his insinuation. “Oh, how dare you!” We know all what God has done for us. “Of course we also will serve the Lord, for the Lord is our God.” Joshua doesn’t back away. He knows better. You can’t serve the Lord. The Lord is a jealous God. It’s just not that easy. Like Moses before him who said, “I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life so that you and your descendants may live, loving the Lord your God.” Like Elijah after him who said, “How long will you go limping between two opinions? If the Lord is God, follow him, but if Baal, then follow him.” Moses. Joshua. Elijah. They knew it wasn’t a slam dunk. As Jesus put it, “No one can two masters; you will either hate the one or love the other, be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and mammon.”

But the people insisted. By now they might have been shouting back. “No! We will serve the Lord!” Then you are witnesses” Joshua said, “you have chosen the Lord. You have chosen to serve the Lord.” “We are witnesses. We got this. We’re good!” “Then put away the foreign gods that are among you, and incline your hearts to the Lord, the God of Israel,” Joshua pleaded with them. “The Lord our God we will serve and the Lord we will obey.” Joshua made a covenant. Wrote it up in the book of the law of God and set a stone as sign, as a witness, as a reminder of the promises they made that day, a reminder of the promise God had made to them. He gave them a sign of the promise.

Because Joshua, and Moses, and Elijah, and Jesus… and you and I, we all know it’s never that easy. Never that cut and dried. Serving the Lord. That whole thing, that whole encounter, that whole scene at Shechem seems pretty intense to me. It seems a whole lot more intense than a kitschy plaque hanging on the wall. As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord. It’s a whole lot more intense, a whole lot more compelling, a whole lot more relevant. Especially when you live here beyond the river, like we do. Beyond the river. Not one side of the tracks or another. Not this side or that side of the Jordan River. Beyond the river. Not a GPS location at all, for that matter. But here, everywhere, in a world so full of other gods.

A world so full of mammon and yet so full of need. A world where idols are legion. Idols that the gospel of Christ demands we smash. Here beyond the river where the temptation to slip into greed, and selfishness, and hatred never stops. Where the thirst of other gods crying for your devotion and demanding your attention is never quenched. Where the altars of worship are shaped by self-interest and it is far more common to serve one’s own desire rather than serve the common good. The world here beyond the river. Where we haven’t figured out how to make sure everyone has a place to live but we’ve discovered how to make a gun with a 3D printer. Where we adore young athletes who make unfathomable amounts of money who together with team owners bicker over a million here or a million there while politicians bicker over what is a living, hourly wage for those who work two and three jobs just to squeeze out a living. Where the oldest of conflicts between nations never seem to wane and humanity’s worst ugliness still rises in each new generation.

Choose this day whom you will serve. Yes, it’s never that easy. It has to be a day-to-day discipline. A never-ending challenge here beyond the river. You can’t frame your faith and hang it on the wall. You can’t reduce your faith to some kind of rallying cry; “We will serve. We will serve”. You can’t offer shallow affirmations and nod your head pretending this life of faith is so easy. No, you have to live it, choose it, work at it, every day. All that back and forth at Shechem, the lesson in salvation history, the exhortation with such rhetorical passion, the pushback on the people’s quick affirmation, the covenant, the sign, it was Joshua’s one last effort to let the people know that yes, they had to choose, and yes, they had to choose every day, and that long before their choice, God chose. And God chose them.

So today when you find yourself once again standing waist deep in the muck here beyond the river, know that God has chosen you. Tomorrow, when you feel like you’re being bombarded on all sides by the forces and voices of the gods who will never give up, remember that God is with you. Tuesday, when the very real stress and anxiety from your work, or from the news, or from getting ready to go to school, or just from everything, when it all threatens to overwhelm you, claim once again the promise of God’s peace and let it wash over you. Wednesday, when the temptation to give up, or to not care, or to throw in the towel on this faith journey, on this being a servant of the kingdom, when you are about to succumb to the notion that when doubts are on the rise or discouragement comes, you might as well quit, tell yourself that God’s grace is endless and God’s love never stops. On Thursday, when the crazy pace of life is out of hand and being on the run doesn’t begin to describe it, take a breath, be still, and know that God is God. Come Friday, when this harsh, cold world has a way of reminding you that death never seems to stop, dig deep and draw upon the psalmist’s painting of God’s presence in the darkest valley and Christ’s promise of life in the midst of death. And Saturday, when the weariness or the loneliness or the hopelessness screams back at you from the mirror, hear that voice again, the voice of Joshua, Moses, Elijah, Jesus. And say to yourself, “yeah, they told me I was going to have to choose.” It has to be an everyday thing here beyond the river.

Have you ever driven past Hoagie Haven further down Nassau Street on a Princeton University reunion weekend? It’s quite the line of all those alums wanting a taste of being back to campus. It’s not just Princeton alums either. One day holiday weekend we picked up our young adult kids at the train. In the parking lot we ran into a church family doing the same thing. Ten minutes later both families were parked outside Hoagie Haven because the kids coming home wanted to stop there even before heading home. When I would go home to Pittsburgh, it was Danny’s hoagies and chipped ham from Isley’s. When my wife Cathy went home it was pot roast with noodles and potatoes. All a sign that you were home. Not just a taste. But a smell too. I can still remember the smell of the apartment my parents moved into after they sold the house we grew up in. When I was young they both smoked so that house probably still smells like cigarettes. But the apartment was different. And to be honest, it wasn’t a great smell. It was a mix of mother’s perfume that seemed to get stronger as she got older and the stale air of an apartment on the 6th floor of a high-rise apartment. I never lived there but that smell, it meant I was home. I was with them. They were with me.

Some memories, some reminders, some signs you can smell, you can taste, you can see. Here at this table, taste and see, and smell that the Lord is good. And know that Christ Jesus is with you and will never forsake you. And remember, “this is my body broken for you, my blood poured out… for you.” A sign of God’s promise. Because when you live here beyond the river, you need all the help you can get.

So come, taste and see, and know that you are home. Choose this day whom you will serve. And then choose again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that.

Joshua said, “As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord.”

© 2018 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

Joshua 5:10-12
David A. Davis
July 29, 2018
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Just between us, between you and me, between us students of the Bible with all kinds of variable amounts of knowledge under our belts, between you and me and anyone who clicks on this sound on the website or listens to the podcast or listens when I tweet the sermon title and link next week, just between us, I had no idea when the manna stopped. When that bread from heaven ceased. I never paid attention. Never gave it much thought. I’m pretty sure I haven’t thought much about the manna raining down from heaven every day except the sabbath for forty years. That’s a lot of manna. That’s a long time of manna. Manna over and over again for forty years.

We all remember manna, right? The whole congregation of the Israelites were in the wilderness and things weren’t going all that well. The people leveled complaint, after complaint to Moses. At one point it was their hunger. “It would have been better for us to die back there in Egypt eating our fill of bread rather than letting you bring us out here to kill us with hunger.” Of course the Lord heard their cry and told Moses that the Lord was going to rain bread from heaven. Moses and Aaron passed the promise along to the people. “Who are we that you complain to us? The Lord has heard all your complaining. Tomorrow you will see the glory of the Lord: bread in the morning and meat in the evening.” It was quail for dinner and manna in the morning. When the people saw the flakes as fine as frost in the morning they all asked one another, “What on earth is that?” Moses told them “that’s the bread the Lord has given you to eat.”

The word for “manna” translated in Hebrew confirms the people had no idea what it was. The word means “what is it?” The daily provision that came each morning also came with lots of instructions from Moses that required a strict adherence to sharing, the avoidance of selfish hording, and a plan to gather extra on Friday so they could honor the discipline of rest and not work on the sabbath. Moses told Aaron to preserve a serving of manna in a jar and place it before the Lord so that it could be kept throughout many generations as a testimony to all that God provides. And then, as recorded at the end of the 16th chapter of the Book of Exodus, “The Israelites ate manna forty years until they came to a habitable land; they ate manna until they came to the border of the land of Canaan.” They ate manna, every day, until they made it to the Promised Land.

Well, there it is. Forty years and then it would stop. Fast forward to Joshua and the crossing of the Jordan River, our text from last week. After they crossed over, they camped at Gilgal just inside the threshold of the Promised Land. Unlike the rambling, and sort of disjointed, two chapter-long account of that liturgical procession across the dry river bed, the narrator’s account of what happened in Gilgal is crisp and clear. There was circumcision which hadn’t been done in the wilderness. There was a Passover Celebration. The people feasted once again on the produce of the land. And the manna from heaven stopped.

The fathers, mothers, and grandparents who fled Egypt forty years ago would perhaps now be few and far between. But remembering God’s saving action is passed from generation to generation. The urgency of keeping the feast right there in Gilgal inaugurates new life in the land with an act of worship. Once again, a rite of remembering all that God has done. As I said last week, an awareness of and gratitude for God’s presence and for all that God has done was rooted deep within and passed from generation to generation.

“The manna ceased on the day they ate the produce of the land.” Most of you like me I’m guessing, had no idea when the manna stopped. But after decades of that daily bread coming from heaven and sustaining God’s people in the wilderness, their nourishment was once again to come from the earth. Eating “the crops of the land of Canaan” implies a return to the rhythm and work of being stewards of the earth, of tending to creation. As the manna ceases, God’s people once again share in the responsibilities of community, care, and daily living. Other miracles of God will surely come but once inside the Promised Land, the manna stops.

It seems a bit counterintuitive, but after forty years in the wilderness, now in the habitable land of Canaan, the people of Israel appear to be more on their own. No more manna. No more water from a rock. No more being spoon fed by the hand of God. Life in the barren wilderness has a way of starkly defining roles and in a “Bear Grylls” kind of way, clearly pointing out the requirements that sustain life. Now on the promised side of the Jordan, the land bears fruit. But the building and care of community will require more attention and care. When the bounty comes and life is flush, responsibilities shift and commitments to faithfulness and righteousness must rise. Compassion and care for the orphan, the widow, the lost, and the vulnerable must not wane.

Years ago on one of our church trips to Guatemala, we went up into the mountains outside of Parramos to meet a small village that was led by women. Fredy Estrada, our group leader all those years and a dear friend of Nassau Presbyterian Church, wanted us to meet this community that he had discovered. Together the women had fled abusive and violent domestic situations to establish this small, safe, environment for themselves and their children. Of course they had nothing. Fredy had the idea to give them a small grant to buy a diesel powered corn grinder. Because they had to spend all their time hand-grinding corn, they never had time to develop a trade or to farm to try to provide more for themselves and for one another and for their community. So through the Princeton-Parramos partnership we were able to provide that machine. It was a one time, micro-lending sort of a thing to help their small village become more sustainable.

Several years later on another trip, when we were at the school in Parramos, Fredy came up to me and said he received word that the folks in the village would like to see us. So a small contingent of our traveling party jumped in a van and road the bumpy dirt road up to the village for a second visit. It turns out, they wanted to show us the corn grinder and to demonstrate how it worked. And they threw a feast for us as well. And then, there was a ceremony of sorts. Fredy was translating for me as folks of all ages, men, women, and children gathered in the courtyard of the village between the corn grinder tent and the kitchen area with a wood fired oven. My sense was that they wanted to formally thank us for the grant. Then some money came out; a whole roll of quetzals. So then I thought they were going to repay us, make it a loan. Which of course was not something we expected. Then with Fredy’s help to listen and my own eyes to see, I watched as the older women from the village called forward several younger women. With the time saved from the grinder, the older women were able to purchase some chickens and do some farming. They were now earning some money. They were having a ceremony to pass on the amount of money we gave them for the grinder to the next generation. They were passing forward the micro-loan so that the young women could get something else started. It was a remarkable and humble example of sustainability not just for food and water but for community.

When the manna stopped, it was as if the move to the new land west of the Jordan River came with the expectation of a deeper maturity among God’s people. At the very least, “eating the crops of the land of Canaan” requires a more nuanced understanding and expression of gratitude for the nourishment God provides. I take that phrase, “they ate the crops of the land of Canaan that year” as a whole lot more than simply a reference to a menu or what found its way to the table. For those who have ears to hear, it is a reference to a way of life, a relationship to the earth, a covenant with the Creator. Not just to eat but to live off the crops of the land of Canaan. To feast on the promise of God and grow ever deeper in the life of faithfulness and service in the kingdom of God. The manna ceased and they ate the crops of the land.

“They ate the crops of the land of Canaan that year.” That’s not just a loaded phrase. It is a theological one. Nate Stucky taught me that. Not about this particular verse but how farming and our relationship to the earth is fraught with theological lessons about community, life, death, justice, and providence of God. Nate and his family are part of our faith community. He is the director of the Farminary over at Princeton Seminary. The seminary owns a farm down on Princeton Pike and with Nate’s leadership and vision it is an outdoor classroom where students do theology, build community, and learn a whole more than I can even imagine. I haven’t sat in on any classes and unfortunately I haven’t even heard Nate give a lecture. What he has taught comes in little snippets over lunch, or Assembly Room conversations, a few late nights at the Family Retreat. Nate told me he could give a week’s worth of lectures on theology just from the mulch pile. That farming and pastoring are a lot alike mostly because of the dominance of the realities of life and death. That “farm to table” is less about creative menus and trendy restaurants and more about nurturing and building relationships in a community that serve the common good. That there is no better way for seminary students to learn how to deal with failure than working at the farm. You can do everything you are supposed to and a stretch of 100 degree days brings death you can’t stop. And one other thing Nate told me, there is nothing like farming to remind you that at the end of the day, it’s still all in God’s hands.

Once again this morning we receive our monthly Hunger Offering. When you stop a minute to ponder, the fact that there are hungry people in the world, in the nation, and in our community in the 21st century must make God weak. Some may pray for miracles to feed those who suffer. Some will settle for the notion of the poor always being with us. That the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, the prisoner will always be with us. That the refugees, those suffering in a violent home or at the hand of another, the homeless, the un-cared for, the oppressed, the wrongly incarcerated, the wrongly convicted, the innocent children killed in war, those neglected in long term care, the victims of gun violence… some will settle for the notion that all of them will always be with us. But the people of God ought to point to the day that the manna stopped and rise up like prophets in a community that rolls up its sleeves and works for a kingdom where the least are served first. God’s people ought to remember the day that the manna stopped and God’s expectation that when bounty comes and life is good, commitments to faithfulness and righteousness must rise. You and I ought to never again forget the day the manna stopped and commit ourselves to life in a congregation that believes and preaches and lives Jesus’ teaching that those who want to be great again are called to be servants of all. Tending to and living off the crops of Canaan can never be separated from God’s call to the life of discipleship.

In the Book of Joshua it is described as “eating the crops of the land of Canaan.” The Apostle Paul called it “the more excellent way.” Jesus just said, “take up your cross and follow me.”

© 2018 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

I Samuel 15:34-16:13
David A. Davis
June 17, 2018
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On the Family Retreat a few weeks ago we gathered for worship on Sunday morning along the shore of the Chesapeake Bay. We broke up into teams to plan for worship and one of those teams was in charge of the reading of scripture. The lesson chosen for the morning was Jesus calming of the storm that was just offered for your hearing. The team of kids and adults decided they were going to act out the story as it was being read… and it was fun. They borrowed one of the kayaks the camp had there at the beach for a prop. The only other prop was the Chesapeake Bay though they wisely did not get in the water for a full embodiment of the story. One adult served as the reader. The children were all the disciples with one in the front of the of the kayak being Jesus. Two dads knelt at either end of the boat and served as stagehands to “rock the boat.” They were storm simulators. One other adult stood just behind the kayak and in front of the shoreline to serve as the symbolic action for the sun and the wind. Though, when the storm really hit, it looked a tad like an “arms only” hula dance.

So as the story was read and the wind and sea whipped up, let’s just say those stagehands were taking their job very seriously. Jesus and the disciples were tossed around like they were in an over-inflated bounce house at a traveling carnival. The disciples, being played by the serious and properly trained actors they were, displayed all kinds of expressions of fear. They were scared! Jesus, of course was asleep on a cushion. Jesus, though being vigorously tossed to and fro, was asleep. Jesus who at one point was just about tossed right out of the boat, was sleeping. Actually, Jesus, she was sleeping and smiling at the same time. To be more specific, Jesus was sleeping and flat out giggling all at once. Which sort of makes sense if you stop and think about it. Jesus, so confident and peaceful in God’s hands, so sure of God’s presence, that sleeping and smiling and laughing all go together.

I wonder if Samuel was smiling when Jesse’s sons were parading by. I wonder if Samuel was laughing after waiting for David to come in from tending to the sheep. Smiling because the future king of Israel was from a small town barely on the map? Mayvbe. Smiling because David was so young? Yes. Smiling because God told him to rise and anoint this shepherd boy to be the royal shepherd of God’s people? Probably.  How about Samuel, smiling and laughing and confident and sure all mixed in together because he knew God would provide.

That’s the take away from this classic story of David being found, David being selected, David being anointed, David being the one. It’s not about David being handsome and perfect in every way. Just wait a chapter or two. It’s not about David’s heart being forever pure. Just keep reading. It’s not about the right king and at the right time and a reign of peace and life happily ever after. It’s all more complicated, more earthy, more gritty, more life-like than that. It’s a story intended to affirm that the Lord provides.

Any recollection, any retelling of  how the whole epic of King David epic began has to include that stunning, show-stopping, theologically mind-numbing, so easy to miss as a passing comment verse. The verse that says “the Lord was sorry that he made Saul king over Israel.” Samuel was grieved. The Lord was sorry. Samuel was grieved here not just by Saul’s death, not because he never saw Saul again. He had to have been grieved by the whole mess that was Saul’s reign over the people of Israel, grieved that he and God and the people, they all went down this “let’s have a king” road. Samuel was grieved. The Lord was sorry and clearly ready to move on. The Lord was apparently not sorry about the king part, just the Saul part. “I have provided for myself a king”, the Lord told Samuel.

“Come on, quit your hand wringing, no more looking back. I am going to take care of this myself. I know who I want. Now you’re going to go to Bethlehem to the house of Jesse and find him.” Once again a king of Israel comes on the scene and is anointed by Samuel in a story that is, one could say, less than regal. Jesse and his sons were invited to sacrifice and a crowning of a king breaks out. Samuel, probably with a smile on his face, is sure that the first, oldest, good-looking strapping son was the one. Samuel was sure Eliab was the one. “Well, would you look at him!” God said “Nope, we’re not doing this by looks this time.” “Abinidad then! That’s it!” God said no. “Shammah! Shammah gets the rose!” The Lord said no. All the rest pass by and now Samuel is pretty much on board. “None of these are going to work. Is this everyone?”, he asks Jesse? The youngest is out working. Doing the chores. Tending the sheep. And Samuel announces that no one is going to sit down and eat until the youngest son David gets in here.

And here’s where the narrator, the writer of First Samuel, the ancient scribes, here’s where the narrator sort of slips in a kind of lasting literary reminder of human sin. A subtle, biblical, textual archived reminder that humanity will always stick its tongue out at God like a child in a playground spat. John Calvin called it “total depravity.” Sometimes its more like thumbing your nose, or hiding the peas on your plate, or having a little hissy fit.

Bill Scheide’s rare book collection lives on after his death over at the University’s Firestone Library. One of many books he really enjoyed showing people was one called “The Sinner’s Bible.” Of course it was very old. It was printed in the King James. Only a few copies remain and one is there in the Scheide collection. Bill imagined a printer’s apprentice getting back at the boss or just being impish, pulling a prank. Because there on the ancient in the Ten Commandments, the book of Exodus, it says in the print, “Thou shalt commit adultery.”

Here in First Samuel God has just said no to Samuel regarding Eliab. God says “The Lord does not see as mortals see, they look on the outward appearance but the Lord looks on the heart.” I’m not picking a king on good looks this time. And when it is recorded that David arrived from the fields right before dinner, they just couldn’t stop themselves from writing down, from passing on, from announcing he was handsome! Never mind that its not all that clear to me how a young man from Palestine could be “ruddy.” God just told Samuel it was not about outward appearance. They wrote down that part. And when the story tells of David making his his less than grand entrance into Israel’s history, “tradition” can’t help but stick a tongue out at the Lord. He may have just the right heart……but he’s gorgeous too in a  European kind of way.

Not having read the narrative now preserved in the canon, the Lord simply tells Samuel, “Rise and anoint him; for this is the one.” Samuel anointed him with oil right there in front of his brothers and the spirit of the Lord fell mightily upon David from that day forward. For, according to the Lord, he was the One. David was the king God provided. David was the one God provided for Godself and for Samuel and for the people of Israel. He was the one. God’s beloved. The Lord provides.

The Lord provides. That’s the take away from this classic story of David being found, David being selected, David being anointed, David being the one. It’s not a naïve Hollywood ending kind of affirmation. Just wait a chapter or two. It’s not like one of those well-intended but poorly thought out attempts at comfort when someone gives and awkward hug and says “It must have been God’s will.” Just keep reading. It’s not one of those flowery theologically vacuous proof text quote from the Apostle Paul about all things working for good for those who love the Lord, this story of King David and God and God’s people, it’s all more complicated, more earthy, more gritty, more life-like than that. Amid all of life’s complexities, when the feebleness of kings and the failures of leaders and the fecklessness of God’s people are all so evident, when the relationships of nations are fraught with war and rumors of war, when faithfulness to the righteous, just, and compassionate vision of the prophets, a vision that is the reign of God, when such faithfulness is nothing but a flicker of light in a sea of darkness, still the Lord provides.

Back at the beach, after the young Jesus calmed the storm and the two dads stopped rocking the boat and everyone returned to sit in the worship circle and rub our feet in the sand, the preacher asked us to share with one another our thoughts and reflections. What came next, from young and old alike, was the stuff of 5, 6, 10 sermons. All of them you will be hearing from me in the future as I shamelessly pocket those ideas. The one that is apt for this morning, the one that pairs well with the story of David, the one thought that follows from Jesus sleeping and giggling all at once, it came when of the groups suggested that maybe the bigger miracle amid the storm, Jesus’ bigger miracle, was not that he calmed the sea, but that he took away their fear. When it wasn’t just Jesus sleeping and smiling, but Jesus and disciples smiling and laughing and confident and sure because they knew God would provide. He took away their fear.

It is true, that some days, some nights, some moments, some seasons, you have to pray for a miracle. It’s okay to pray for a miracle. Pray that God would take away the fear. Pray that you, that we would remember and know that the Lord provides. That God would take away any fear. For God’s perfect love casts out fear. Pray that you and I, that we and our children and grandchildren might be so confident and peaceful in God’s hands and in the promise that the Lord provides that sleeping and smiling and joy might all go together now and forever.  Even if it is a miracle.

© 2018 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

I Samuel 1 1-20
David A. Davis
June 3, 2018
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This morning and on most of the Sundays to come this summer, we are turning in our preaching life to the Old Testament. On these first three Sundays of June, the sermon text will come from the Book of I Samuel. The reign of King David is the central story line, the focus of I and II Samuel. But before David and all those stories of Jonathan and Goliath and Uzzah and Michal and Abigail and the ark and Jerusalem and dancing and slingshots and a bow and arrow and witches and music and singing, there is Saul, and there is Samuel, and there is Eli the priest and his two priest sons tagged in the words of scripture as “scoundrels.” And there is Hannah. Our biblical text for today is the story of Hannah. Hannah, the mother of Samuel. Hannah and the boy Samuel, who after he was born and weaned, Hannah, as the Bible says, “lent him to the Lord for as long as he lives.”

You will remember the comical story of the call of Samuel, how God kept calling Samuel in the night but Samuel thought it was the old priest Eli. I Samuel tells of how the young boy served in the temple at a time when “the word of the Lord was rare… visions were not widespread.” The book of Judges ends with the troubling conclusion that all the people of Israel “did what was right in their own eyes.”

The Word of the Lord was rare and everyone did what they thought was right in their own eyes. In other words, when it came to God’s people and faithfulness and righteousness and loving the Lord your God, and having no other Gods before me, things were a mess. So when the narrative of I Samuel points out for the reader that “As Samuel grew up, the Lord was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground”? That’s a big deal. Samuel is a big deal. The relationship, the communication, between God and Samuel is a big deal.

When it comes to God’s covenant with God’s people, the salvation history of God’s people, it turns with Samuel. God’s revelation to God’s people; God makes a move with and through Samuel. The monarchy, the king, King David, the house of David, God’s promise to David, it didn’t start with a lineage. It didn’t start with a coronation or a royal wedding. It started with Samuel. Which means it started with Hannah.

Hannah only hangs around the world of the Bible for a chapter and a half. She enters stage right as one of the wives of Elkanah and exits with the narrator’s incredible understatement: “The Lord took note of Hannah… and the boy Samuel grew up in the presence of the Lord.” I for one, as I read and ponder the story of Hannah in June of 2018, I have decided I can’t read it, I can no longer hear it, in the same way. This living Word of God. If you are anything like me, you won’t be able to ever hear it the same way again either.

[I Samuel 1:1-20 is read]

Over the years I have regularly been invited by the professors at Princeton Theological Seminary who are teaching the introduction to the Old Testament course to participate on a panel to discuss “preaching from the Old Testament.” The class happens near the end of the semester. Students are invited to submit questions ahead of time. The panel members receive a copy of those questions organized by theme by the faculty members.

What we panel members have learned is that we really don’t even have to look at the questions. Not because we know all the answers but because the questions never change. The students change. The faces change. The years change. But the questions remain the same: How do you preach the violence and judgment that runs all through the Old Testament? How do you preach all the complex historical-critical material we have been learning? Do you have to mention Jesus in every sermon even if the lesson is from the Old Testament? How do you preach the apparent contrast between the God of Old and the God of the New Testament? What about some of these difficult, gut-wrenching biblical texts of the Old Testament?

At some point in the discussion I usually try to mention that in my pastoral experience, in my years of serving as a pastor and preacher, one of the most difficult aspects of preaching the Old Testament is something never mentioned in all the questions, the years of questions. It is the dominant theological motif of barrenness and fertility. Hannah is far from the only name. Sarah. Rebekah. Rachel. The mother of Samson. In the New Testament, Elizabeth, the mother of John the Baptist.

Over and over again, the reader of scripture is told that God heard their prayer and a child was born. Yet, pastors and preachers and professors and students of the book, all of us know that it doesn’t work that way: when it comes to real life, life in a congregation, having a child, unable to have a child, joy and heartbreak.

I stopped carrying babies at the time of baptism up and down the aisle to introduce them to the congregation way back in the early nineties when I had a child in my arms and looked right into the tear-filled eyes of a woman sitting on the aisle there in the pew who I knew had just suffered a miscarriage. I have rarely felt more helpless as a pastor than the times I have sat with women and men who have poured their hearts out to God just like Hannah and they ask me why God has not heard their prayer, why God has not answered their prayer… and I have no answer to give. For those students in the introduction to Old Testament class, after a year or two of ministry, I bet the questions change.

Such a dominant biblical theological motif in I Samuel. But it’s not the only one, especially if you find yourself hearing an old, old story in a new kind of way. Elkanah had two wives, Hannah and Peninnah. The reader is told right from the get-go that Peninnah had children but… Hannah had none.

Each year, Elkanah would take his family on a pilgrimage to worship and offer a sacrifice at Shiloh. The two priests who served at Shiloh were the scoundrel sons of Eli. It is not until chapter two that the narrator tells of these corrupt priests who “had no regard for the Lord.” They would steal from the food being sacrificed for themselves, sometimes sending their own servant to do the dirty work of getting the better portion. “Give it to me now,” the servant would demand of the worshippers, “or I will take it by force.” The narrator comes right out and announces that “the sin of the young men was very great in the sight of the Lord!”

So the yearly trek for Elkanah, his wives, and kids was hardly a pious, rejuvenating, spiritually-uplifting retreat that included a visit with the family priest and sage and all-around pastor who had sort of become part of the family. Add into that toxic religious environment the notion that Peninnah, labeled in the text as Hannah’s rival, “used to provoke her severely, to irritate her” because she couldn’t have a child. According to I Samuel “it went on year by year, as often as they went up to the house of the Lord. Peninnah used to provoke Hannah.” This was more than teasing. It was more than whatever we could fathom as competition among spouses in a polygamous situation. This was bullying. This was abusive. This was Hannah over and over again, year after year, repeatedly being reduced to tears and not being able to eat.

On a first read, it is as if we are to give Elkanah a bit of a pass for his part any way in the family system. After all, according to the translation, he gave Hannah a double portion of what had been sacrificed. He gave her a double portion of what was left after the rotten, sinful sons of Eli took the best and, no doubt, larger part. He gave her a double portion, which in her distress, she wasn’t eating anyway.

A footnote to the reading in the New Revised Standard Version indicates that the meaning of the Hebrew in the verse about Hannah’s portion is uncertain. Another translation indicates Elkanah only gave her one portion and for that portion she should have been grateful because she had no children. As one Hebrew Bible professor told me years ago, the Hebrew in a few parts of I Samuel is a mess. What the professor, what he didn’t say back then, was that the translators and scribes must have been trying to give Elkanah the benefit of the doubt. A pat on the back. There, there, old Ekanah. “He gave Hannah a double portion.” Of course any benefit of the doubt is lost when Elkanah makes the mistake that us men have made pretty much forever, thinking it was, at the end of the day, all about him. “Am I not more to you than ten sons?”

After everyone else had finished eating and drinking, Hannah rose. Well, that doesn’t quite to it justice, does it? She made the decision to go back up to the temple. She turned from her husband and his other wife, she turned away from all that nastiness and hurt and stepped with both feet into a less than welcoming religious space so that she could present herself before the Lord. “She was deeply distressed and prayed to the Lord and wept bitterly.” It was the kind of prayer that comes with clinched fists, and indescribable groans, and breathless sobs, the kind of prayer that comes with sweat-like drops of blood, the kind of prayer that no one should endure and the kind of prayer that way too many have. She continued to pray silently and her lips were moving. “Please, please, please, O my Lord, O my Lord, O my Lord.”

Eli lifted himself off the front step and went to see what this childless woman was up to inside the temple. He thought she was drunk. “How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? Put away your wine.”

“No, my Lord, I am a woman deeply troubled; I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, but I have been pouring my soul before the Lord. Do not regard me as a worthless woman, for I have been speaking out of my great anxiety and vexation all this time.”

Do not regard me as a worthless woman. I have been pouring out my soul before the Lord. That old codger of a priest Eli basically says, “Well, God bless you,” and gets out of there as quickly as he can. I Samuel puts it more formally: “Then Eli answered, ‘Go in peace; the God of Israel grant the petition you have made to him.’” What it doesn’t say is that he was probably already half-way out the door, because Hannah, Hannah, just dropped the mic. Don’t call me a worthless woman when I have been pouring my soul out before the Lord.” Oh, I bet, no kidding, you think, “the Lord took note of Hannah”?

As to that dominant biblical, theological theme of barrenness and fertility, the culmination, the end of the story, of course, is that Hannah conceived and bore a son, Samuel, the child she lent to the Lord for as long as he lived.

But this time, with this read, with this biblical, theological theme, I sort of want to stop right there. Right there with the echo of Hannah’s bold, courageous voice. For a powerless, childless woman dared to speak up and pour out her soul before God and before a world, a religious world that then, and pretty much ever since, would prefer she just keep quiet. One biblical scholar puts it more eloquently. She writes, some of these stories of women in the Bible, “they are not just simple domestic tales with happy endings” but rather, they are stories that tell of how “the initiative of bold women can alter the trajectory of history.”

God’s covenant, God’s covenant with God’s people. The monarchy, the king, King David, the house of David, God’s promise to David, it didn’t start with a lineage. It didn’t start with a coronation or a royal wedding. It started with Samuel. Which means it started with Hannah. A powerless, childless woman who dared to speak up and pour out her soul.

Speaking up and pouring out.

© 2018 Nassau Presbyterian Church
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