I love my mother's story, and yet it’s the scarcity of “the Word of the Lord” that I really feel called to speak about today. I feel as if it’s getting harder both to hear and to speak our familiar words of faith. Words like salvation, hope, fellowship, grace, blessing, mercy... Once, these were words that we could hear and share, words that had meaning. More and more, though, I feel as if the hate-filled world has stuck a pin in our precious Christian words. It has popped them like a balloon—I feel God's Spirit drifting out of them, and the words falling hollow to the ground, limp and shriveled artifacts. I feel as if some of our fellow Christians are using our beloved words to promote hatred and injustice, day after day after day. And the rest of us are trampling the shreds of the words underfoot, ignoring them in our rush to get about our daily business. How do we hear the voice of our God in these troubled times?
"The word of the Lord was rare in those days," our first lesson begins. This is the only time in the Hebrew Bible that this phrase is used. The story is set during a deeply troubled time in the land of Israel. Change is shaking the old, trusted foundations. The story takes place when the familiar government by judges is about to give way to the unknown perils of monarchy. In the meantime, chaos reigns. Eli, the trusted high priest, is old and failing. His sons have filled the land with corruption and shame and greed as he sits idly by, doing nothing to stop them.
As the story begins, night shrouds God's holy Temple in darkness. Eli is blind, lying helpless in his bed, no longer able to provide God's vision and hope to the people. Samuel is the long-awaited child granted by God to the barren woman Hannah. He’s then torn from her side as a toddler, offered to God’s service by Hannah, as a sacrificial gesture of thanksgiving. I wonder if young Samuel misses his mother and father in the quiet of the night? In this story, he's probably a young tween, still living and serving in the Temple. He's just an apprentice--a teenage acolyte, let’s say, chafing under the weight of adult expectations and sweaty robes. He must feel the empty darkness of the Temple and the troubles of the land, even if he doesn't understand them. Even though he sleeps in the heart of his religion's holiest place, he still knows little of God.
"What's the point?" Samuel must have been wondering in the darkness.
But wait! This story isn’t all darkness and gloom. Our text says that "the lamp of God had not gone out." Even in the darkness, God's light is burning beside Eli in his blindness. And God's voice is calling young Samuel's name. Over and over again. Despite his youth and his inexperience. The Word of God keeps calling.
When I sit in church, or when I pick up the bible to read, I often announce proudly to myself: "Look at me, reading Scripture like I’m supposed to! Teach me something, God! Move me! I'm waiting! Make it quick, though, because I have a lot to do today!" I expect something to happen between me and God, one on one. I expect God to enter the words for me and bring them to life. But that's not the way it works in today's lesson, is it? Samuel needs Eli's wisdom before he can recognize God's voice. We all need the wisdom and support of other human beings in our faith journeys. The old and the young need one another. The strong and the feeble need one another. The educated and the innocent need one another. Because God speaks to us all.
As a matter of fact, do you know why we Episcopalians read so many scripture lessons as part of our Eucharist? It's because we believe that Jesus comes to us in Scripture when we’re joined together as the Body of Christ, just as he comes to us in the bread and wine. We surround ourselves with the voices of the Hebrew Scriptures, with the songs of the ancient psalmists, with the admonitions of the early church leaders, and with the good news of the Gospels. We take all of these varied, swirling, often confusing voices, and we wait together for God to appear in our midst through these words. “Hear what the Spirit is saying to God’s people,” is just another way of saying, “Speak, Lord, for your servants are listening.”
And there's another important piece. Our lectionary leaves out the end of this story—an end that we need to hear. When Samuel finally listens—really listens—to the voice of God calling him in the night, the word that he receives isn’t one of cozy comfort. When Samuel opens himself to God's word, God gives him a hard task. A task that’s going to change him forever. God tells him it’s up to him to stand up to his mentor Eli. He's told to proclaim drastic change, to tell Eli that God is going to take away the power and authority that Eli and his sons have misused.
When God calls me in the night, I'm hoping to be comforted, not changed and challenged. I don't want God's voice to turn my world upside down. Who here wants to tell their boss that they’re fired? Who wants to bring bad news to their beloved mentor? Who wants to stand up to power and oppose it? We all know how dangerous that is. Look what happened to the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, whose courage-- and sacrificial love--we celebrate tomorrow.
The most dreaded voice for a parent to hear in the night is that of their crying child. I remember it well: "Mama, Mama, Mama," it whispers in a mother’s ear, breath hot against her cheek. "Mama, mama, my tummy hurts bad." All parents know that this is the beginning of a sleepless night, a big disruption in plans, and a lot of laundry. It is a voice that inspires a loud, "Nooooo!" in your heart and a deep desire to hide under the covers. But it's a voice that you can't deny or refuse; it's a voice that makes you who you are—a loving parent.
That's what God's true voice offers us—to make us who we’re meant to be: God's responsible and loving presence in the world. As Rowan Williams says, the Word of God that speaks to us in Scripture doesn't call us to "jot down ideas and think about them." God speaks our names in order to transform us, to make us see and live in the world in a new way.[1] Scripture is a summons, a voice in the night. It's an invitation to be part of Christ's Body acting in the world.[2] It gathers us and forms us around the Altar of sacrifice. It doesn’t ask us to mouth empty words like pious puppets. It asks us to translate what we hear into courageous, self-giving action, into shared dependence on God alone.
When the world rejects migrants and turns its back on the marginalized, God's Word invites us to embody love for the stranger. When the world armors up for protection, turning its back on the vulnerable, God’s Word calls us to turn our guns into plowshares. When the world destroys God's creatures in a greedy search for riches, God's Word invites us to "serve and preserve" creation, instead. When the world draws tight circles to exclude any of God’s beloved children, God’s Word encircles us all with the power of Love. When the world exploits the poor and rewards those who are number one, God's Word invites us to live in such a way that the first shall be last and the last shall be first.
God's call, God’s invitation, is also a promise. At the end of our reading, Samuel becomes a prophet. God is with him and lets "none of his words fall to the ground." As it was my mother’s little student, Gray …. As it was with Samuel …. So shall it be with you, beloved people of St. Ambrose. God is calling, and the world is desperate for words of meaning, words of love. Continue to open yourselves as a community to hear God's call. Continue to listen together. Continue to respond together. Don’t be afraid—you see, God never really leaves the words. As Christ's Body, we are "in the words," with Christ, and will never be forsaken.
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