Fifth Sunday in October

I Samuel 28:20-25


My wife and I, driving home the other night, were talking about trick-or-treating. She was sharing her thoughts on the difference between Linus and his well-tended pumpkin patch (which I wrote about last week) and the others in the Peanuts gang who went out in costume, taking joy in the act of receiving. That, after all, is what trick-or-treating is: a celebration of receiving.


This, along with Saul's refusal of hospitality, caused me to consider how little I partake in the joy of receiving something from someone else, how little I actually allow anyone to actually give me anything. And I found myself thinking about Halloween when I was young.


I carried with me, in most of my trick-or-treating, a plastic pumpkin. It was not especially big or deep, but it held its share. And I had a goal each year: I wanted it to be so full that, when we reached my grandparents house, I'd have to dump it out in a grocery bag before continuing on to their neighborhood. It's a goal, I guess, that could seem a little greedy, but greed had nothing to do with it. I didn't want to have more than anyone else. I just wanted to have received so much that I could no longer hold it. I wanted to set out again with a bucket that, while it looked empty, was actually full to overflowing.


These days my goal on Halloween night is to give away all the candy I have in-hand. Part of this is a change in role—from child to adult. But, unfortunately, it's also an indication of a change in me. I can't remember the last time I really felt that Halloween excitement that this day or this night I would receive something from someone else. And I have lost all sense of that desire to find myself so full to overflowing that I have to empty my pail before continuing.


Somewhere I lost the joy of receiving. I lost it with those around me, and I lost it with God. At some point in the years when I took pains to decide what costume to wear and now when I rarely take the time to dress up, I became more concerned with what I could give than with allowing others, and God, to give to me. I began to focus more on the joy I felt standing at the door giving candy rather than the joy found on the porch where, for no reason other than grace, I was given something on my journey through the darkness.


Perhaps this is why I've found myself aching from emptiness now and again this year. Maybe instead of a grocery bag full of candy in the house behind me, my pail is truly empty. Yet I still keep trying to reach deeper into it and find something else to give. In so doing, I move farther and farther from joy.


Maybe it is time to knock and allow other hands to give to me.


God, help me, when I feel empty, to hold out my pail for you to fill it once again.

Fourth Sunday in October

I Samuel 28:15-19


Near the end of It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, Linus is admonishing his friends for their disbelief in the Great Pumpkin. As he speaks, he lets one little word slip. Only after it is shouted into the night does he realize the horror of what was spoken. "I said if," he says, clamping his hands over his mouth. His exclamation of "if" the Great Pumpkin comes—rather than when—is, he knows, an act of unfaithfulness that spells his doom. No matter how good (or sincere) he's been, that one moment is all it takes to lose favor and bring out the wrath of this entity. It is not unlike the reaction of another being in our story from 1 Samuel.


The idea of the wrath of God is not a comfortable one. Heresies have arisen over the centuries that dared to separate the mean, nasty deity we see referenced in today's encounter and the loving Jesus of the Gospels. Smarter folks than I have attempted to reconcile this fickle God of the Old Testament and the One who was willing to die for those who killed him.


Let's look at Saul here. In fact, let's look at what Saul's in big trouble for in this episode. Saul is now an enemy of God because he didn't slaughter another human being. Because of this he's lost everything: God's favor, Divine friendship, not to mention his kingdom. The Holy One has even stopped speaking to him.


This is a bit frightening. It gets me thinking of other episodes in the Bible. Moses hit a stone and is barred from entering the Promised Land. And how many ancient kings were going along just fine but didn't answer a prophet's question exactly right? My gosh, how big a trouble am I in for my "if" moments?


Come to think of it, I've been wondering lately if I've been left, like Linus, shivering and alone in my pumpkin patch. I know I don't have to look hard to find my own moments of doubt or insincerity. I'm not sure, but I've probably disobeyed some direct order just like Saul did. Heaven knows there are things I've walked away from. And even though I wasn't supposed to carry out a task as bloody, I fear that in some of them was my one last chance to retain (or regain) favor, and I blew it. And now everything I've worked for, everything I'd hoped for or is, like "tricks or treats," gone forever.


But, then, in the midst of my cold and silent night I feel hands. There's no candy scattered about the ground, but there is someone leading me out of the night. There are no voices, but all is not silence. And, waking up the next morning, I begin to wonder if tomorrow, next week, or next year my faith, my sincerity will not seem in vain.


And, maybe, it doesn't matter so much if I do say "if."


Passionate God, thank you for not abandoning me in the night.

Third Sunday in October

I Samuel 28:11-14


As Halloween approaches, it is said that the veil between this world and the next becomes thin allowing passage and communication between here and there. This is the reason that some years ago they televised a séance that attempted to talk to Harry Houdini. Goes to show that our day is not that different from Saul's and a desire to talk to the dead has not gone out of fashion.


Over the weekend, my wife and I sat in the October night and talked about the dead. Namely, we talked about her dad who we lost a little more than a year ago. Perhaps it's that thinning barrier between what-is and what's-next. But he has been in our minds a lot lately and, with him, are things we wish we had said and done.


For reasons I will never be able to explain, my father-in-law liked and loved me almost instantly. I loved him as well. First, because he was the father of the woman I loved. But, soon, I loved him because of the man he was. And I've felt cheated because I only had a few years to know him before Alzheimer's began eating away that person—strong, independent, intelligent—and replacing him with one who was nearly the exact opposite of those things.


He was also, perhaps because of his personality or perhaps because he was my father-in-law, a little intimidating. I suppose it was this or the excuse of it that kept me from returning a lot of the affection he had for me. And before I could begin to correct this, he was disappearing into the fog of the disease that killed him. I was left, as I am now, wishing I had said and done things that I will never have the chance of saying and doing in this world.


This month, I've been thinking and writing about fear. And, I suppose, that theme plays in with regret since it is fear of experiencing that regret as others I love (hopefully later than sooner) pass on that pushes me to say and do more than I have before. Perhaps not all fear is wrong, as long as it does not overtake our lives.


But, in the dark autumn night, my wife and I talked about another fear: that those who are gone must wait until death or the transformation of all things to hear the words we left unsaid and long, now, to say. In reality, there is no medium in Endor to call up those on the other side. We can never say these things that weigh down our hearts face-to-face.


Yet, I do not believe they need go unsaid. Perhaps once upon a time there was a barrier that kept voices from passing back and forth. But just as I believe that the One who broke through the heavy stone of death hears me, those with him are not deaf to my whispered, regretful words. So like, but unlike, Saul, I do talk to the dead.


Resurrected Christ, comfort us with the knowledge that those who have gone before are, as we too will be, with you and the love that binds us cannot be broken by tombs or crosses.

Second Sunday in October

I Samuel 28:7-10


My wife and I saw, a few weeks ago, a preview for a vampire movie. The film itself appears to be about a boy who befriends a young girl who just happens to be one of the undead and, I'm supposing, eventually deals with the fact that his playmate is a murderous animal. This kind of plotline, according to my love, seems to match my own philosophy of relationships—don't get too close to people because you never know about them. At least, that's how she thought of it.


A little fear and trepidation about another person isn't always a bad thing. The necromancer or medium (despite tradition, the Bible never calls her a witch) in our reading above is wise to be a bit fearful of this stranger who comes cloaked in darkness. I doubt she ever imagines that this man before her is Saul, but she knows enough to think that there are some people in her world—just like in our own—who will gladly befriend you in order to betray you for their own gain.


But, I'll admit, I take this caution to an extreme. Like a medieval hold, I've taken great care in building my walls and fortifications to ensure that no one makes it through to the innermost places without first passing many well-guarded gates. As such, I can, when necessary, provide the appearance of opening up to another while still protecting myself if they turn from friend to foe.


Let's face it, relationships are scary. To allow a complete stranger into your life and your heart involves great risk. There's no word about what happens to this necromancer after she does Saul's bidding. Her reward for her trust in this stranger, for allowing him into her home and to see who she truly is, could have been exile…or worse. Something similar can happen with the people we meet in our lives. Someone who comes as a friend may deliver us to a certain kind of exile—from a group, or a job for instance—and may strike deep in our most vulnerable places and hurt us.


And that's exactly the way it worked out—and continues to play out—for God. Incarnate among us, the One-who-is-love wanted to become part of our story. In Christ, God put away all defenses and barriers between us and the Divine. That vulnerability was met with pain, and death.


But the story didn't end there, nor does the relationship. In my daily life, I know that God is continuously putting the Divine Heart on the line, and I am continuously breaking it and wounding the One who loves me more than any other. And, yet, God never builds a wall. Never does fear separate us.


Despite this, I still set guards upon my wall and bar the gates whenever a stranger approaches. And I can rest in comfort when the Saul's of the world are out walking about by night.


Of course, I suppose, with so many doors between me and the world, I can miss the one who stands at the door and knocks.


Give me courage, Christ, to be as vulnerable as you were, are, and will be.

First Sunday in October

I Samuel 28:3-6


It's frightening to come to a point or place in life and find that you have no idea where to go next. Take Saul, for example. He stands today without counsel and without a clue what to do. It feels, whether true or not, that he has wandered so far from the expected path of his life that he is even beyond God's reach.


I'm reading some of my own life into the text when I say that Saul could be seen as someone to whom things happened, and he was simply swept along with the tide. Did he want to be a leader of this magnitude? We're not told explicitly either way. But that is what came to him, a wind that got beneath him and blew him like a falling autumn leaf. And, it seems, upon reaching this moment in life the wind stopped, leaving him with the decision about what to do next.


Living in the country these past few months, I've become reacquainted with how dark the night truly is. Attempting to maneuver the long driveway down to the mailbox after sunset without a flashlight is a little scary. There are curves in the drive that, if not followed, will lead into the grass and perhaps cause my feet to become tangled in fallen limbs, or, worse, I might run into one of the many trees out here. And this goes without mentioning the fact that in this darkness someone could be ahead of me and I'd never know it until I was face to face with them.


Sadly, this renewed experience of night has coincided with a time in my life much like Saul's—a period where I have no idea what direction to take on the road ahead. Like Saul, I find that all the means at my disposal are no help in showing a way forward. And God who once gave counsel, does not now even whisper. I am afraid.


This month, I'm hoping to offer, in this month of scary movies and spooky things, meditations on fear. However, as I work to write this first week, I find that am lacking on wise counsel. Fear about tomorrow, about the path that seems so dark ahead of me, paralyzes me in the same way that Saul himself stood paralyzed on the hilltop. And while the angels counsel not to fear, I find that I cannot easily escape its grasp.


But I try and hold on to the knowledge gained in better times that fear clouds my mind and tampers with my thoughts in order to feed itself. The country darkness, I must remember, is often only deep until I stand still and allow my eyes to adjust. And that scary silence that Saul, and I, often fear is an absence may be, may just be, a space that is quiet enough for me to hear.


You who is without fear, help me as I stare into the darkness that is the future and help me, in the silence, to hear you saying "fear not it is I."