The Unexpected Voice: Balaam’s Donkey and the Church

Like all others in the Episcopal Church who use the Lectionary to read and pray the Scriptures daily, I had the pleasure of hearing the story of Balaam’s donkey this week (Numbers 22:21-38).  This passage often raises smiles when read in groups—or, even alone—for its combination of naïve (in its original sense) storytelling, vivid characterization, and surprising content.  It is, however, worthy of some consideration and reflection for the serious message it bears amidst the irony and comedy.

Balaam is riding his donkey while going to meet Balak for what would turn out to be an unsatisfactory stint of employment to curse the Hebrews.  Along the way the donkey sees the angel of the Lord, with drawn sword, in the road.  Sensibly, the donkey detours into a nearby field.  Balaam whacks the donkey; smarting, the poor beast obeys and continues on.

 

A little later, the angelic figure returns, this time in a lane with walls on either side.  Obediently the donkey squeezes between the angel and the wall—no mean feat—and continues on.  This is a courageous as well as skillful and obedient donkey.  However, during this delicate maneuver the donkey had to rub up against the wall, crushing Balaam’s foot.  More whacking ensues.

 

Finally (ah, yes, three times!) the angel appears to the unnamed donkey in such a way that there was no way around.  Perhaps surrendering to its fate, the critter simply folds its legs and rests on the ground.  Then all hell breaks loose.

 

Angry and, one presumes, mystified, Balaam uses his staff to beat the donkey. The picture is both very sad and very ironic.  The Seer who cannot see beats the “dumb animal” that can.  This image, which makes one think of St. Paul’s teaching that all Creation groans under the consequences of human sin, is a pitiable miniature of all the folly and spiritual blindness humans commit and suffer from throughout the ages, and the toll it exacts on everything.

 

Then perhaps comes the real point of the story: the donkey speaks.  “What have I done to you, that you have struck me these three times?"  Balaam doesn’t blink, even for second, at this.  The text has him shoot back his self-justification: “Because you have made a fool of me! I wish I had a sword in my hand! I would kill you right now!"

 

Here is revealed the condition of everyone who abandons simple humanity to live in the ego.  All behavior is justified, no matter how vile, because “you have made a fool of me!”  Our appearance, our standing, our control, our comfort, our need to be respected by others—is a bottomless pit of rage, ready to open up whenever we are thwarted.  People, animals, objects, the Creation around us, even God are all swept into the drama of our ego-centered universe, culminating in Balaam’s threat to annihilate the donkey.  A surreal picture of a man witnessing a miracle who threatens to extinguish the very miracle itself is thus made complete.

 

To this nihilistic outburst (which is as comic as tragic), the donkey calmly addresses himself.  He patiently pulls Balaam from the edge of insanity with these logical words: “Am I not your donkey, which you have ridden all your life to this day? Have I been in the habit of treating you this way?"  

Balaam considers this request—never commenting on the novelty of the conversation once—and replies simply: “No.”  That is all he says.  Stopped in the midst of his violent fulminations by the solid and honest reasonings of his donkey, servant, and (really) friend, Balaam ends up climbing off the ledge and resumes being human.  Only at that moment are Balaam’s eyes opened by God to see the angel in the road, with drawn sword in his hand, blocking the way.

 

The angel is not amused by Balaam’s violence.  Rather than being merely a quaint detail of a folk tale, the striking of the innocent and faithful donkey is brought up as an accusation against Balaam.  God sees all we do—in the heat of the moment or in recollected calm.  We are responsible.

 

The angel then speaks at some length in praise of the donkey, saying that if it had not reacted so wisely, the angel would have killed Balaam and spared the donkey.  The issue at hand is not the donkey’s disobedience or obstreperousness, but Balaam’s perversity—his intention to thwart the way of the Hebrews as they journey to the Promised Land.  By standing in the way of Balaam, the angel is expressing what Balaam is trying to do to God.  Only then, after listening to a talking donkey and a sword-bearing angel, does Balaam finally become fully human: he repents in word and deed and agrees to do what God commands.

 

Balaam’s repentance eventually leads to the comical scene which follows: blessings coming out of this paid curser’s mouth.  Balak’s desire for control over God and the Hebrew people is upended by the very “donkey” he has hired to do his bidding.  The irony is complete.

 

We in the Church, however, would do well to think over this seemingly odd story with great care.  When the faithful souls who do the hard work in the Church’s life, often for years and without comment or criticism, suddenly balk, what do the leaders do?  Do we dismiss them?  Figuratively strike them by demanding compliance with our goals?  Do we end up saying something very similar to the Pharisees in John 9:34: “‘You were born entirely in sins, and are you trying to teach us?" Or, in John 7:49, when the educated leadership speaks of the crowds turning to Jesus: “…this crowd, which does not know the law—they are accursed.”

 

And beyond balking, what if these same people should dare speak? The unaccustomed voice in the Church, in our communities, in our neighborhood, family, or online—what do we do when this voice speaks?  Balaam’s donkey could see what the Seer could not.  The quiet person, who does the work but does not “theologize” in the Church or “take the floor” in the workplace or family or online likely sees the reality of what is happening from a vantage point completely beyond the people "at the helm."  When such a person balks at plans, or turns away from the announced agenda, what do we do?  Do we enquire, consider, listen?  Or, do we metaphorically strike out at the suddenly out-of-turn or unpliable messenger?

 

In the current era of the Culture War heresy it has been fashionable to say that this sin is most often committed by the “side” one opposes, but my experience suggests that it is really an equal-opportunity error.  Whenever our wills become perverted from the basic will of God we end up “walloping the donkey,” so-to-speak.  When we are lost in our ideology, our supposed powers or knowledge or authority, we re-enact this story in our own way.  The Church is, sadly, especially vulnerable to this due to our willingness to turn opinion into truth.  This is particularly evident when we hear little of Jesus and much of ideology, "tradition," or the need for "relevance" in the conversation.

 

The story of Balaam’s donkey has many meanings, of course; but for me during this year’s reading, it is a reminder to consider what I am becoming as I go through life—based on how I perceive and treat everyone and everything along the way.  It is also an invitation to grasp the freedom found in repentance.

When I was growing up, my mother would sometimes say to me: “Just who do you think you are?”  It is a worthwhile question, as also is “Just who do you think others are?” whenever we are thwarted in our plans and expectations.  An angel just might be standing before us.

 

Most of all: don’t beat the donkey.  Listen to it.  You may have been riding a true Seer and Prophet all along.

Christ the Victor

Here is a perfect expression of how the Early Church understood the mystery of salvation. Here, St. Cyril is commenting on St. Peter’s confession of Jesus as the Messiah and Christ’s response to this confession. Note how Cyril views the Cross and Resurrection as part of a process of salvation, and especially how the Paschal Mystery is an overthrowing of tyranny and a shared victory for us all rather than simply the payment of a debt owed to God. This “Christus Victor” understanding of salvation is what we proclaim in the Episcopal Church, leading to a deeper appreciation of God’s perfect love, which “casts out fear.” (1 John 4:18). This passage also makes clear that Christ’s teachings and the Paschal Mystery are a united reality—the former being completed by the latter. Finally, such an understanding of salvation makes clear our response to share the faith lovingly by way of response and action rather than remaining passive viewers or recipients.

 

When, however, the disciple had professed his faith, [Christ Jesus] charged them, it says, and commanded them to tell it to no one: “For the son of man,” he said, “is about to suffer many things, and be rejected, and killed, and the third day he shall rise again.” And yet how was it not rather the duty of disciples to proclaim him everywhere? For this was the very business of those appointed by him to the apostleship. But as the sacred Scripture says, “there is a time for everything.” There were things yet unfulfilled which must also be included in their preaching of him, such as were the cross, the passion, the death in the flesh, the resurrection from the dead, that great and truly glorious sign by which testimony is born of him that Emmanuel is truly God and by nature the Son of God the Father. For that he utterly abolished death, and he faced destruction, and spoiled hell, and overthrew the tyranny of the enemy, and took away the sin of the world, and opened the gates above to the dwellers upon earth, and united earth to heaven; these things proved him to be, as I said, in truth God. He commanded them, therefore, to guard the mystery by a seasonable silence until the whole plan of the dispensation should arrive at a suitable fulfillment. 

St. Cyril of Alexandria (c. 376 – 444), from Commentary on Luke, Homily 49.

Jethro's Wise Advice

Moses’ father-in-law said to him, ‘What you are doing is not good. You will surely wear yourself out, both you and these people with you. For the task is too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone. Now listen to me. I will give you counsel, and God be with you! You should represent the people before God, and you should bring their cases before God; teach them the statutes and instructions and make known to them the way they are to go and the things they are to do. You should also look for able men among all the people, men who fear God, are trustworthy, and hate dishonest gain; set such men over them as officers over thousands, hundreds, fifties and tens. Let them sit as judges for the people at all times; let them bring every important case to you, but decide every minor case themselves. So it will be easier for you, and they will bear the burden with you. If you do this, and God so commands you, then you will be able to endure, and all these people will go to their home in peace.’ (Exodus 18:17-23, NRSV)

+   +   +

I have always found this part of Exodus quite interesting. On one level, it is intriguing that after all the dramatic events of Israel’s deliverance at the Red Sea and the struggles in the Wilderness (thirst, rebellion, hunger, battles, &c.) we suddenly have a highly personal moment with Moses and his father-in-law, Jethro (a non-Israelite), wherein Moses gets some trenchant advice. On another level, this passage helps me to maintain focus as a priest, pastor, and leader.

When I have heard or given sermons on this passage (usually at the Embertides when it is appointed to be read), the natural tendency is to treat it very much as “management,” combined with some enlightened teaching on ministry-of-all-the-faithful, seasoned with a dash of needed humility: an altogether attractive package of servant leadership very much in in the form we currently (officially) admire in the Church today. This is true and helpful, but not enough.

As I read it at Mattins today, I was reflecting on another way of looking at this passage. This involves going ‘round to the other end of the telescope and looking back, as it were. In addition to helping Moses learn the value of delegation, this section of Exodus may also be read as help in getting Moses to be about his real calling: truly leading God's people through a focused, prayerful life of encounter with God.

Jethro’s advice was for Moses to deal only with the “hard cases,” those beyond what a well-trained team of assistants could provide. This left time for Moses to pray, reflect, and listen; in the words of the text, “to endure.” This is terribly important in a modern technology-focused world where multi-tasking is implicitly valued and encouraged.

Multi-tasking is not exactly new. It is said that Napoleon could manage up to seven conversations simultaneously when in the midst of a battle or in his administrative “office hours.” I think, however, most of us cannot manage this.

And neither should we.

Parsonhood, the concept behind my approach to being a priest/pastor in this tradition, is based in large part upon the idea of role clarity.  By this, I mean the recognition that each part of the Body has its proper function and that the best health in the Body is achieved when each part is doing its work well and with proper respect for the other parts.

Multi-tasking, tempting as it may be, always means a degraded form of attention; it means not doing one’s own work well—and likely messing up someone else’s into the bargain. In the Christian Church, it often means a kind of false efficiency leading to personal and communal spiritual sterility.

Jethro’s wise advice to Moses not only opens the doors to shared leadership, but also frees Moses to do what he was truly called and gifted to do as a leader: to embody true personhood, not be a sort of spiritual factory churning out decisions and “product.”

I think leading this way requires real commitment and clarity. Doing the easy thing, the conventional path of putting out fires, chasing ambulances, and “meeting needs” is surely appreciated and rewarded in the Church today, but it leads to burn-out rather than endurance.

Parsonhood assumes ongoing, solid growth in discipleship and spiritual understanding, something impossible if we set up ministry to be primarily about crisis-management. Jethro saw this and impressed it on his son-in-law’s mind. Moses had the humility and wisdom to accept it.

My question is who or what in the Church today is taking Jethro’s part and upholding this principle?

Genesis 43:5 -- The Gospel in Miniature

"Ye shall not see my face, except your brother be with you."

As we read the story of Joseph from the book of Genesis this Lent, I am reminded of a lecture given by then-Archbishop of Canterbury Michael Ramsey. The lecture's topic was the Holy Spirit, and in illustrating a point he made a comment--almost an aside--which has stayed with me over the years. 

He spoke about the centrality of care for the Other in the Christian faith, summing it up in those words from the King James version of the Forty-Third Chapter of Genesis: "Ye shall not see my face, except your brother be with you." Ramsey said this was, in a sense, the Gospel in miniature. 

There is another saying (I forget the source) along much the same lines: "If you seek salvation, look to your brother." 

In our day, we would perhaps modify these to "sister and brother," but the meaning remains the same: our salvation is connected to our love and care for the others in our life. There is no such thing as a completely individual Christianity; indeed, an individualistic faith is blasphemous and the religion of demons. The Gospel of  Jesus Christ makes this completely clear: to love God means loving the neighbor in real, tangible ways.

This is particularly important to keep in mind during Lent. Two of the great disciplines of this season--fasting and prayer--must not overshadow the third: Mercy. They are completely interconnected and mutually-reinforcing. It is mercy which seems particularly in short supply right now.

We hear much about justice today, and justice is indeed essential both for our faith and our society. However, mercy marks the Christian life most profoundly, for mercy is what God has shown us rather than justice. As a matter of justice, what humans have done and continue to do to each other, to the environment, and in response to God's love would merit our extinction, not our vindication in a court of law.

But this is not what the Gospel proposes. Rather, it is by the conscious reception of God's mercy in Christ to us that we may become merciful to others--recognizing their just claims and seeing our absolute dependence on their fair treatment as the criterion of our own salvation, much as we say "forgive us our sins as we forgive others" in the Lord's Prayer. This is the message of the Christ's cross, not of Justice's balance.

We seem uncomfortable with mercy today, preferring the sharper language of judgment, blame, shame, and condemnation. This is a sad replay of earlier patterns in our society, which seems always drawn to harshness rather than compassion. We often act as if we believe that eventually, force will make us love each other.

Compelling people to love the Other never works. It is only by a recognition of our own completion in our brother or sister that we can truly understand the meaning implicit it "Love your neighbor as your self" or the hidden meaning of the words of Joseph's command. Understanding and accepting God's mercy for us unlocks this recognition. 

When God came into our world to share our life--sharing it to the very end--the best excuse we could have for walling ourselves off from each other was removed. If God could do this, so may we. By becoming part of Christ's living Body, we are now able to let him work through us to overcome barriers in love and mercy. We do not have to do this on our own. We do not have to wait for the other person to blink or capitulate or even change. We are free to love now because we ourselves may know we are beloved of God--warts and all, even in our present condition.

This is a new language for humanity. It is not "natural" for us in our present broken condition. To learn this language means a dedication and persistence available only through communion with our Triune God. There can be no "instant justice" in human affairs nor can mercy flow unceasingly from human hearts without deep humility arising from regular repentance. All the essentials of the Gospel are woven in a seamless garment, like Christ's robe. Teaching and practicing these essentials is the ongoing work of the Church's inner life...an inner life nourishing its mission to the whole Cosmos.

With so many today receiving so little justice or mercy, a true Lenten fast will lead not to impotent anger or self-righteous blame, but to a greater thirst for the good of the Other, and to each of us discerning how we might bring our brothers and sisters along with us to the Kingdom through repentance, humility, service, and compassion. Like Joseph, we will seize the opportunities God gives us to save and serve those in need.

For truly, without them, we shall never see God's face.

Of burning scrolls and hopeful hearts…

Leaving the scroll in the chamber of Elishama the secretary, they went to the court of the king; and they reported all the words to the king. Then the king sent Jehudi to get the scroll, and he took it from the chamber of Elishama the secretary; and Jehudi read it to the king and all the officials who stood beside the king. Now the king was sitting in his winter apartment (it was the ninth month), and there was a fire burning in the brazier before him. As Jehudi read three or four columns, the king would cut them off with a penknife and throw them into the fire in the brazier, until the entire scroll was consumed in the fire that was in the brazier. Yet neither the king, nor any of his servants who heard all these words, was alarmed, nor did they tear their garments. Even when Elnathan and Delaiah and Gemariah urged the king not to burn the scroll, he would not listen to them. And the king commanded Jerahmeel the king’s son and Seraiah son of Azriel and Shelemiah son of Abdeel to arrest the secretary Baruch and the prophet Jeremiah. But the Lord hid them.

(Jeremiah 36:20-26, NRSV)

Every other autumn in the Episcopal Church’s two-year survey of the Holy Scriptures, we make our way through the history of Israel, beginning with the story of Samuel and ending with Judas Maccabaeus. Along the way we encounter Saul's abortive monarchy, David’s extraordinary up-close story of triumph and tragedy, Solomon’s glory and failure, the division of Israel into two kingdoms, the Elijah/Elisha cycle, good kings (a few) and bad kings (many more), and the eventual collapse of first the northern and then the southern kingdoms. It is a fascinating, moving, and often horrifying story.

Currently, we are reading from the book of the prophet Jeremiah about the last days of the Kingdom of Judah, headed by the feckless Jehoiakim (son of the great-but-too-late King Josiah). After God gave his people’s leaders so many opportunities to repent and return to justice, holiness, and obedience to his revealed will, the sands in the hourglass are about to run out. The promise to David that his line would never lack for an heir (made way back in 2 Samuel 7) is now about to be tested to its limit.

God’s just anger is expressed in Jeremiah’s dictation of a prophesy to his scribe Baruch, who then goes to the Temple and reads it aloud. This prophesy is a “final warning.” Rather like telling a late-stage diabetic to stop drinking sugary sodas, Baruch announces the consequence of the current path taken by the Kingdom of Judah: dismemberment and destruction. The news of this travelled to the palace fast.

On a cold, raw day, the scroll is read to the king and his close advisers.  The heating system is an open fire in a brazier before Jehoiakim. As the prophesy is read, one can imagine the various hearers being filled with many emotions…shock, fear, disgust, anger, doubt. But not Jehoiakim: no, he seems oddly calm. After every few of God’s warnings are read out, the king takes his knife out and cuts a new chunk of parchment for the fire.

Few actions in the annals of history have been more symbolically loaded than this grim BBQ of God’s word. Jehoiakim did what so many leaders (sacred and secular) have done—and continue to do—in the face of God’s judgment: ignore and destroy the evidence, preferring to live in denial of reality, or to believe in the delusion of their own power.

When Jehoiakim starts to burn the scroll, some of those around him know it is a mistake; however much they may resent what it says, they know it has truth in it. Yet, the culture of corruption and dishonesty is rooted too far down for them to act. They keep their cool, they cooperate. The fire consumed each slice of written truth until there was no more.

But, of course, there is always indeed more with God. Jeremiah, now hidden, dictates once more to Baruch the prophesy (and then some!). God’s word is more than words written down; it is truth and indestructibly eternal.

And this is the curious thing about reading this account: we can feel terribly sad as we see, step by step, arrogant, corrupt, and foolish leaders (then and now) make their way to the abyss; yet, we know that even after Babylon takes the city, destroys it, and carts most of the population away, God’s committed promise of love was not broken. Even human folly and cruelty on this scale is not enough to break it.

Eventually, King Cyrus of Persia (called “my anointed” by God!) will release those in Babylon desiring it so they can return to Jerusalem. They will find it a largely empty wreck, but they will begin the process of rebuilding, all the same. Nehemiah and Ezra will urge the people on (in their very different ways), renewing the community in purpose and faithfulness as they overcome one obstacle after another.

Destruction by a new enemy—the Greeks—will be miraculously overcome by a group of zealots who figure out how to beat the enemy at his own game. And, eventually, a country preacher who just happened to be of the lineage of David would come to town and be hailed as king, killed as an outlaw, and then rise again to achieve in humility what was lost by arrogance. Interestingly, a fire burning to keep people warm is mentioned along the way in both stories.

When we read history, we are taking a journey requiring enormous humility on our part—humility in reading, interpreting, and making conclusions. Anyone at Jehoiakim’s “Bonfire of the Prophesies” might have thought the coming end was going to be complete and final, that God had turned his back on his people for good.

This was not the case; rather, the consequences of sin and evil were allowed to be visited upon an unrepentant people…but God’s love and purpose would be waiting for the remnant on the other side of these trials, as it always is.

And it is this knowledge we must bring to our reading of the story of Israel, America, the institutional Church, and our own lives if we are not to join in the old, old story of people trying to master God’s truth by brazier, ballot, or bullet.

A Word on Holy Patience

[Jesus] put before them another parable: ‘The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field; but while everybody was asleep, an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and then went away. So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well. And the slaves of the householder came and said to him, “Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where, then, did these weeds come from?” He answered, “An enemy has done this.” The slaves said to him, “Then do you want us to go and gather them?” But he replied, “No; for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. Let both of them grow together until the harvest; and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.” ’

Matthew 13:24-30, NRSV

Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him.

Do not fret yourself over the one who prospers, the one who succeeds in evil schemes.

Refrain from anger, leave rage alone; do not fret yourself; it leads only to evil.

Psalm 37, vv. 7-9, BCP version

+  +  +

The appointed morning Psalm and the Gospel lesson today in the Episcopal Daily Office Lectionary both focus on a difficult and demanding practice for disciples: holy patience. This virtue needs to be reaffirmed in our troubled and angry times, both for what it is—and what it is not.

The passage from Matthew, usually referred to as the Parable of the Wheat and the Tares (or, the Wheat among the Weeds) is a parable of judgment (God’s v. ours) and also a parable urging a special kind of patience or forbearance.

This is not a passive, uninterested, or ethereal sort of patience. It does not ignore or deny suffering and wrong. It is deeply aware of and involved in the wrong of the world (likened here to the presence of a destructive weed in the midst of a good and life-sustaining food crop). But this type of patience knows that responding to the wrong with violent or aggressive anger will—no matter how gratifying in the moment, no matter how “it gets the job done”—ultimately compound the problem, ripping up good with bad and leaving the whole field in tatters.

Such an attitude is essentially atheistic, in no way relying on a deep communion with God. It is also an open invitation to yet another round of “the ends justify the means.”

Instead, the parable counsels, we must be honest about the wrong while not multiplying it. We aren’t supposed to equate wheat with weeds or good with bad…but we are to preserve the good rather than destroy it in some sort of human-directed war of attrition with the bad.

To this picture the psalm adds the observation that anger and fretting, by themselves, do not lead to the desired outcome. They are fundamentally destructive, not constructive, ways of responding to wrong. They may be “natural,” but in this world, what is “natural” for humans is generally twisted and sickened without the constant infusion of God’s grace. Rather, we are to “be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him,” which is another way of saying (in Christian terms) we must place ourselves in deep communion with God and respond (not react) when and how the Triune Majesty calls us.

The parable and the psalm here are not urging quiescence…not at all. The evils and injustices of this world must be acknowledged, confronted, and fought against. Yet, how one does this is as important as whether one does it. The admixture of anger taints and vitiates the intended good in ways that ultimately undermine the very outcome itself. Holy patience is active, dynamic, and participatory. But it is also the fruit not of anger, but of love—and the Love of Christ as found in the whole Gospel must be its criteria, not human retribution clothed in the mantle of high-minded morals.

Ideological and passionate movements are tempted to forget or downplay this—and thus plant the seeds of the next form of injustice. The value of a godly patience allows us to move from taking the false role of the One In Charge (visiting all our unexamined and ungodly “stuff” on the Other) to the true roles of servant, steward, instrument. In that is true power, true freedom—and true satisfaction.

Saul, Samuel, Agag, and the courage of learning from hard texts in Scripture...

And Samuel said, 

‘Has the Lord as great delight in burnt-offerings and sacrifices,

   as in obedience to the voice of the Lord?

Surely, to obey is better than sacrifice,

   and to heed than the fat of rams. 

For rebellion is no less a sin than divination,

   and stubbornness is like iniquity and idolatry. (1 Samuel 15:22-23a, NRSV)

The lessons from 1 Samuel this week in the Daily Office deal with something repugnant to most modern readers: a religiously-sanctioned act of genocide. God orders King Saul to exact a total retribution against the Amalekites for their previous aggression and unprovoked attacks. All of the Amalekites--men, women, children--and their possessions are to be destroyed. Nothing and no-one is to be spared.

Western liberal Christians generally approach this text with both revulsion and skepticism. The notion that God could demand such horrific violence and that such a thing was actually carried out seems criminal and impossible. In the face of ISIL and other such groups, the echoes of religious-based terrorism are deafening in these texts. 

So, mostly we just stop there and say something like: "the Old Testament is so bloody and gruesome, with a bloodthirsty God so unlike the one we worship in the New Testament." Unable to justify the Scriptures to our minds, we enter into the business of consigning them to oblivion (where they will come back to haunt us in our subconscious, popping up in unwanted ways) or the imperceptible fringes of antisemitism or its offspring, Christian supersessionism. Like people who pass over the truth of history or current events for what is going on in People Magazine, we avoid what we cannot understand or find painful.

Yet, the Holy Scriptures do not need to be "justified" in the way a current government's policies are before the press and public. The texts of the Bible are there to be entered into or rejected, but not made merely palatable. Attempts to do so miss the point, much like contemporary attempts to smooth out the news, "spin-doctoring" facts that are painful, confusing, bewildering, or illogical.

The story of King Saul, his rise and fall, his complex relationship with Samuel, with the Hebrew nation, and with God, is remarkably contemporary for something so very old. There is a great deal to be learned from it, if we have the courage. Entering into the story rather than holding it at arms-length and judging it allows for much more insight and even--gasp--application.

One of the most fascinating parts of this story occurs when Saul goes ahead without Samuel and mixes his royal role as commander with the priestly one of offering sacrifice. The priest-king ideal (so often found in ancient near-eastern monarchies and exemplified in Holy Scripture by Melchizedeck and Jesus Christ), when activated by Saul, seems to be the "third rail" for Samuel, bringing on a final condemnation and annulment of God's support after Saul's previous disobedience to God by not destroying all the booty from the Amalekites. Saul's reasoning in response--Samuel taking his sweet time getting to the sacrificial rite and the clamor of the people for action--only reinforces Samuel's anger (and, seemingly, God's rejection). Here, if we have the patience of learners (rather than the impetuousness of dilettantes), we can pause and ponder. 

Saul, a creation of Israel's desire for a unified political-military leader, becomes aware of the utility of joining spiritual power (ritual sacrifice) with what he already possesses. In so doing, he is taking on something not specifically granted to him by God (or the cantankerous Samuel). He is also fusing two kinds of power that require the ingredient of obedience to God in order to be effective. By bending to the will of the people who are demanding this fusion of power, Saul is showing what kind of a king he has become: weak, dangerous, and unstable. This will be drawn out later in the story of his tortured and destructive relationship with David. There, Saul is willing even to destroy his own line's future to preserve his own power. Such kingship cannot be good for the people, does not honor God, and cannot stand.

Samuel voices this in his rebuke to Saul in the above-quoted passage. He calls out the central problem: Saul puts outward, cultic practice above inner spiritual obedience. David, for all his faults later on, resists this. Saul's actions betray a fundamental misuse of his position that drags God's authority into dynastic politics, one that we have seen again and again in political leaders/rulers when they try to fuse their earthly power with the divine. Such a fusion is, as Samuel points out, really just another form of idolatry and divination...a way around the primary commitment to the One God who has revealed the divine will and justice.

That justice is very hard to square with human justice. Various attempts have been made to do so, and they all come up unconvincing. The Summary of the Law ("Love God with all your heart, mind, and strength; love your neighbor as yourself") is about as clear as we can get; but, in the end, the Christian religion points to the Cross of our crucified Lord (the one who is without sin and takes on all our sin, shame, alienation, and misuse and offers it to God as the perfect priest-kingly offering) and says, in effect: "Let that be an end to all offerings of justification."

And so should it be an end to all attempts to fuse sacred and political power. Saul's stubborn desire to rule in God's Name, yet on his own terms, sounds suspiciously familiar to Anglican ears. Henry VIII would try to do much the same, setting up a national conflagration not able to be put out for nearly one hundred and fifty years...and which in some ways, burns still in our tradition.

This passage from 1 Samuel also calls into question the repeated attempts to "pretty-up" spiritual wrong by wrapping it in priestly garments. We have seen a great deal of this in Chrsitian history, perhaps most devastatingly in recent years over the child sex scandals in the Roman Catholic Church, but certainly each tradition in Christianity has been guilty of this in one way or another. Samuel's question to Saul ("Has the Lord as great delight in burnt-offerings and sacrifices, as in obedience to the voice of the Lord?") remains pointed at us today. How do each of us individually, and Christian communities in aggregate, find ways to cover over our lack of faithfulness to God by applying "religious makeup" to hide or legitimize the disgrace?

The slaughter of the Amalekites, which frames this passage, remains a true horror. Just after this section, their king Agag is brought before Samuel. The Amalekites' many crimes are recalled, and Agag is killed, being "hewn in pieces" by his executioner in what can only be described as an act of religious butchery. Any attempt to minimize or "justify" this is, I think, pitiful and immoral. Like the horrors we know of in our own national, family, or personal history, there are chapters which--no matter how much we believe them to have been necessary or appropriate--we cannot fully understand or approve. Anyone, religious or not, has a lot of reckoning to do when dealing with the full account of his or her own story.

But the work of faith will not let us shrink from this accounting; it requires that we enter into it and grapple with it, learning at each approach what we may, and offering what we do not understand back to God (something secular people cannot do). Some things, perhaps, ultimately have little to teach us. Others, once thought irrelevant, suddenly are shown to hold great meaning for us, when we are ready. This is one of the ways Anglicans approach Sacred Scripture, a way requiring maturity, perseverance, and humility.

We cannot know when a particular verse, story, phrase, or image will open up into a vista of revelation that changes or enriches us. Our limited perspective requires the activity and guidance of the Holy Spirit for the right timing (do we adequately appreciate how important or freeing this is?)  We just keep entering in through the gates of prayer and openness--precisely what King Saul lacked. That, too, is part of the loving obedience for us as believers, an obedience helping us gain the fruit of Christ's sacrifice of Love, a love that re-focusses our search for more Amalekites to slaughter from people we do not like to the sins that lie in our own hearts.