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.