Reaching
Commentary
In Hendrik Ibsen’s famous drama Peer Gynt, the hero of the story tries to find the meaning of his life by traveling and interviewing others. At one point he visits an asylum where “lunatics” are kept. Their craziness, thinks Peer Gynt, must arise from the condition that they are, as he puts it, “outside themselves.”
Not so, says the director of the asylum.
Outside themselves? Oh no, you’re wrong.
It’s here that men are most themselves—
Themselves and nothing but themselves—
Sailing with outspread sails of self.
Each shuts himself in a cask of self,
The cask stopped with a bung of self
And seasoned in a well of self.
None has a tear for others’ woes
Or cares what any other thinks.
We are ourselves in thought and voice!
That is the tendency within each of us—to become swallowed up with ourselves. Perhaps it is for that very reason that each of our lectionary readings for today focuses on finding meaning only beyond our limited introspections. The first sign of true mental and spiritual health is when we know that we are not the center of all things, and that there is a way of life and perception in which God and others truly matter.
2 Samuel 18:5-9, 15, 31-33
The demise of David’s reign is tied to a fascinating story that seems to be constantly repeated in political annals: an extramarital affair. Why would David do such a thing? Not just the romantic encounter itself, but the deliberately planned murder (engaging others of his trusted subordinates as willing or unwilling accomplices), the massive deceptions, the elaborate cover-ups, and even the personal delusions that kept him from seeing his own guilt.
Part of the answer has to be found in the very first verse of 2 Samuel 11: “In the spring, at the time when kings go off to war, David sent Joab out with the king’s men and the whole Israelite army … But David stayed in Jerusalem.” This hints at several things. First, the time of the year lent itself to surging hormones and amorous thoughts. After the months of terrestrial hibernation, the world around David was beginning to bloom, the days were getting warmer (Jerusalem sometimes gets snow in winter), both animals and plants were exercising their mating rituals, and along with them the human crowd in the palace and the capital city were showing signs of frisky behavior. There is good reason to celebrate Valentine’s Day in the spring, and David himself was a muscular male whose own body welcomed the virus of libido.
Second, David’s life was a runaway success. His early contestants to the throne of Israel had all been killed, defeated, or swept aside. David was at the top of the corporate ladder, with no immediate challengers in sight. His kingdom was consolidated, his enemies vanquished, his market share a supreme monopoly, his income substantial and rising, his palatial mansion finished, and his goals achieved. David was at the place in his career where “can’t” and “defeat” were no longer part of the vocabulary. What he wanted, he got. What he desired, he took. What he planned, happened. No questions asked. Winning a new territory or another heart were essentially the same: Get the idea and make it so.
Third, David had begun to isolate himself from the masses. He had the disease of wealthy insulation, where immediate consequences of actions cannot, and need not, be felt. The armies went off to war, but David stayed in Jerusalem. The workers buzzed about in their daily rituals, but he sat on the roof of his palace and surveyed the scene. Regular folks had to labor for a wage, but there was no schedule David had to keep. He could sleep or sneak or sulk or skulk or sidle or stroll at will. Adultery was at one time mainly the prerogative of the rich, simply because only they had the time and means. Mass transportation, suburban domestic isolation, and a culture of leisure dispense it liberally to all classes of society. But David lived in one of those eras when “fooling around” was a natural correlation to being rich and powerful.
These things come through in Nathan’s ingenious invective against his friend and lord. Telling a story of the difference in lifestyle between the uncaring and presumptive rich man and the tenderhearted poor fellow aggravated David, as it should have. But his self-deception was so great that he did not see himself in the mirror until Nathan bashed it against his psyche.
The outcome of David’s devious treachery would be family squabbles and the disruption of the monarchy for the rest of David’s life. David and Bathsheba’s first child would die, followed by the tragic demise of several other children, including Absalom’s challenging takeover. What made this rebellion so tragic for David is that David truly believed Absalom was his divinely endorsed successor. After all, Nathan the prophet had said that David could not build Yahweh’s permanent home, since he was a man of war; his son, however, a man of peace, would build Yahweh’s temple. Notice again Absalom’s name: it means “Father of Peace!” This is why David begged his generals to go easy on Absalom, and ordered them not to let Absalom die. But David was wrong. David himself would limp from the throne in his old age, barely keeping the restive kingdom alive.
Another son of peace (Solomon) would succeed David, and build the great temple. And, many centuries later, another son of David, a true man of peace, would rule the world with righteousness in a manner that truly brings peace.
Ephesians 4:25-5:2
Jesus is Lord of all, Paul fairly shouted at the beginning of this letter, producing wonderful new life in all who were part of the church (Ephesians 1). It is, in many respects, very similar to his letter to the Colossian congregation.
In place of Paul’s instructions about the false teaching at Colossae, there is a brief reminder that Jews and Gentiles are together on the same footing before God because of the powerful redemptive work of Jesus (Ephesians 2). As he began to celebrate this amazing grace of God through prayer (Ephesians 3:1), Paul interrupted himself, reminding his readers of the specific calling he had received to know and communicate this divine revelation (Ephesians 3:2–13). Then, Paul resumed his powerful and profound prayer of praise (Ephesians 3:14–21), and launched into an extended metaphor on what it means for the living body of Christ to function in a dark world (Ephesians 4:1–5:20). Very similar to his instructions in Colossians 3, Paul outlined specific behaviors that were expected in Christian households (Ephesians 5:21–6:9).
Paul’s letters from prison address a couple of life issues—the nature of the relationship between master and slave, for instance, when both are Christians, and a proper response to the false teaching that was being promulgated at Colossae. But mostly, these writings paint, in vibrant colors, the character of moral choices in a world that is compromised and broken. Darkness and light are the key metaphors. Evil has wrapped a blanket of pain and harm around all that takes place in the human arena. Jesus is the brilliant light of God, penetrating earth’s atmosphere with grace and reconciliation. Because of Jesus’ physical departure at the ascension, his followers now must step in and become a thousand million points of light, restoring relationships and renewing meaning. Jesus is great, and because of our connection with him, we can be great too. Not for our own sakes, of course, but as witnesses of the eschatological hope that tomorrow’s amazing future of God is something we already participate today. That is why Christianity is the religion of the dawn.
John 6:35, 41-51
Fred Craddock once flew to Winnipeg, Manitoba, to speak at a church conference. Unfortunately, his arrival coincided with the worst snowstorm of the decade. When no one picked him up at the airport, Fred found a taxi willing to brave the whiteouts and drifts in the drive required to get him to his motel. There a message awaited him; he was to call the man who booked him for the conference.
“I’m sorry, Fred,” said the man. “We didn’t count on this blizzard. We’ve had to cancel the conference. In fact, we’re so snowed in here at the church that we can’t even get out there to the motel to pick you up for a meal. You’re on your own.”
The motel was not all that great. It didn’t even have a restaurant. When Fred called the office to find directions to some food place nearby, a woman suggested the coffee shop at the bus depot. It was about a block and a half away. Battling gale force winds and stinging snow, it still took Fred twenty minutes to stumble over there.
The bus depot was dirty. The coffee shop was worse. Even so, an overflow crowd had taken refuge inside its steamy windows. Everyone seemed to know the plight of those who newly entered, for when Fred saw no seats open, kind strangers at a booth shoved over to make space. Soon he was eating a tasteless gray soup.
The door opened again. This time a woman struggled to find her way into the throng. Her lingered entry brought out the man with the greasy apron. “Hey!” he yelled. “Close that door! You’re letting all the cold air in here!”
Like Fred, the woman had to find sanctuary at a table of strangers. When the man with the greasy apron walked over and asked what she wanted, she asked for a glass of water. He returned and asked again, “What do you want?”
“The water will be fine,” she said.
“No,” replied the man. “What do you want to order from the menu?”
“I’m really not hungry,” she answered. “I’ll just stick with the water.”
“Look lady!” came the response. “We’ve got paying customers waiting! If you’re not going to order anything, you’ll have to get out!”
“Can’t I just stay a few minutes and get warmed up?” she asked.
“No way!” he said. “If you don’t want to order, you’ll have to leave!”
So the woman gathered herself and stood to make an exit. Of course, these two had gotten the attention of everyone in the room. As the woman rose, everyone noticed the men on either side of her pushing back their chairs and standing as well. And the men next to them. In a flash, everyone at that table stood and turned to leave, plates still bulging with food. Something like an electric current buzzed through the room, and all at once everyone else got up and moved toward the door.
he man with the greasy apron was startled. “All right! All right!” he said, motioning everyone to sit again. “She can stay!” He even brought her a bowl of soup.
As Fred turned back to his own bowl of broth he found that it tasted better than he remembered. In fact, it reminded him of something but he could not quite recall what. He turned to the stranger next to him and asked, “Do you know her?”
“No,” said the man. “Never saw her before. But if she can’t sit here to get warm, I wouldn’t want to stay in a place like this.”
As Fred paused to leave a short while later, it finally dawned on him that what he had been thinking about when the soup gained its taste was the last time he shared the sacrament of communion. Maybe these mixed strangers in search of shelter were only a pack of isolated bodies. But for a moment the spirit of Jesus warmed the air in the room and they breathed in something of the grace of God that can only come when we eat of his body and drink of his blood.
It sounds terrible to those who don’t understand. But most people get it. Because most of us truly need it.
Application
Mark Twain wrote that when he was fourteen he thought his father was an idiot. “But when I turned twenty-one,” he added, “I was amazed at how much the old man had learned in seven years!” Obviously, Twain himself had learned a thing or two by that time. One hopes we all will learn such things as time goes by.
The strangest thing about maturity is that it sneaks up on us best when we don’t pursue it overmuch. We can do little about age, but maturity comes quickest to those who do not wrestle it down. Malcolm Muggeridge said it beautifully in his own reflections on growing old. He told of nights when he found himself in bed, yet somehow suspended between this world and the next, sensing that things glow with the lights of Augustine’s City of God. His thoughts in that moment of quiet harmony were not about himself, he said, but rather about how wonderful it was to be alive and to know that all things come together and find their purpose in the hand of God.
It is when we reach for what truly matters that we live most truly as ourselves.
Alternative Application (Ephesians 4:25-5:2)
Generations ago, the English poet George Herbert penned a brilliant picture of the near-phantom connection that links us to God. In “The Pulley” he portrayed God at the moment of creation, sprinkling his new human creature with treasures kept in a jar beside him. These were God’s finest resources, given now as gifts to the crown of his universe: beauty, wisdom, honor, pleasure… All were scattered liberally in the genetic recipe of our kind.
When the jar of God’s treasures was nearly empty, God put the lid on it. The angels wondered why God did not finish the human concoction, leaving one great resource still in its container. This last quality, God told the angels, is “rest.” But God would not grant that divine treasure to the human race.
The angels, of course, asked why. Herbert was ready with the divine answer regarding the best mix for the human spirit:
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.
Herbert saw well that the strong talents and marvelous abilities of humankind would make us like impatient children, eager to strike out on our own and find our self-made destinies. Only if God would hold back a sense of full satisfaction from our souls would we search our way back home.
When we use our abilities for our own ends, we tend to destroy what is best in ourselves and others. When, however, we are restless to find the face of God in the divine law’s mirror we find a glimpse of our own best faces reflected back toward us in smile of God’s.
George Matheson, the blind hymn writer, gave the same prayer to the church when he wrote:
Make me a captive, Lord, and then I shall be free.
Force me to render up my sword and I shall conqueror be.
I sink in life’s alarms when by myself I stand;
Imprison me within Thine arms and strong shall be my hand.
My will is not my own ‘til Thou hast made it Thine.
If it would reach a monarch’s throne it must its crown resign.
I only stand unbent amid the clashing strife
When on Thy bosom I have leaned and found in Thee my life.
Not so, says the director of the asylum.
Outside themselves? Oh no, you’re wrong.
It’s here that men are most themselves—
Themselves and nothing but themselves—
Sailing with outspread sails of self.
Each shuts himself in a cask of self,
The cask stopped with a bung of self
And seasoned in a well of self.
None has a tear for others’ woes
Or cares what any other thinks.
We are ourselves in thought and voice!
That is the tendency within each of us—to become swallowed up with ourselves. Perhaps it is for that very reason that each of our lectionary readings for today focuses on finding meaning only beyond our limited introspections. The first sign of true mental and spiritual health is when we know that we are not the center of all things, and that there is a way of life and perception in which God and others truly matter.
2 Samuel 18:5-9, 15, 31-33
The demise of David’s reign is tied to a fascinating story that seems to be constantly repeated in political annals: an extramarital affair. Why would David do such a thing? Not just the romantic encounter itself, but the deliberately planned murder (engaging others of his trusted subordinates as willing or unwilling accomplices), the massive deceptions, the elaborate cover-ups, and even the personal delusions that kept him from seeing his own guilt.
Part of the answer has to be found in the very first verse of 2 Samuel 11: “In the spring, at the time when kings go off to war, David sent Joab out with the king’s men and the whole Israelite army … But David stayed in Jerusalem.” This hints at several things. First, the time of the year lent itself to surging hormones and amorous thoughts. After the months of terrestrial hibernation, the world around David was beginning to bloom, the days were getting warmer (Jerusalem sometimes gets snow in winter), both animals and plants were exercising their mating rituals, and along with them the human crowd in the palace and the capital city were showing signs of frisky behavior. There is good reason to celebrate Valentine’s Day in the spring, and David himself was a muscular male whose own body welcomed the virus of libido.
Second, David’s life was a runaway success. His early contestants to the throne of Israel had all been killed, defeated, or swept aside. David was at the top of the corporate ladder, with no immediate challengers in sight. His kingdom was consolidated, his enemies vanquished, his market share a supreme monopoly, his income substantial and rising, his palatial mansion finished, and his goals achieved. David was at the place in his career where “can’t” and “defeat” were no longer part of the vocabulary. What he wanted, he got. What he desired, he took. What he planned, happened. No questions asked. Winning a new territory or another heart were essentially the same: Get the idea and make it so.
Third, David had begun to isolate himself from the masses. He had the disease of wealthy insulation, where immediate consequences of actions cannot, and need not, be felt. The armies went off to war, but David stayed in Jerusalem. The workers buzzed about in their daily rituals, but he sat on the roof of his palace and surveyed the scene. Regular folks had to labor for a wage, but there was no schedule David had to keep. He could sleep or sneak or sulk or skulk or sidle or stroll at will. Adultery was at one time mainly the prerogative of the rich, simply because only they had the time and means. Mass transportation, suburban domestic isolation, and a culture of leisure dispense it liberally to all classes of society. But David lived in one of those eras when “fooling around” was a natural correlation to being rich and powerful.
These things come through in Nathan’s ingenious invective against his friend and lord. Telling a story of the difference in lifestyle between the uncaring and presumptive rich man and the tenderhearted poor fellow aggravated David, as it should have. But his self-deception was so great that he did not see himself in the mirror until Nathan bashed it against his psyche.
The outcome of David’s devious treachery would be family squabbles and the disruption of the monarchy for the rest of David’s life. David and Bathsheba’s first child would die, followed by the tragic demise of several other children, including Absalom’s challenging takeover. What made this rebellion so tragic for David is that David truly believed Absalom was his divinely endorsed successor. After all, Nathan the prophet had said that David could not build Yahweh’s permanent home, since he was a man of war; his son, however, a man of peace, would build Yahweh’s temple. Notice again Absalom’s name: it means “Father of Peace!” This is why David begged his generals to go easy on Absalom, and ordered them not to let Absalom die. But David was wrong. David himself would limp from the throne in his old age, barely keeping the restive kingdom alive.
Another son of peace (Solomon) would succeed David, and build the great temple. And, many centuries later, another son of David, a true man of peace, would rule the world with righteousness in a manner that truly brings peace.
Ephesians 4:25-5:2
Jesus is Lord of all, Paul fairly shouted at the beginning of this letter, producing wonderful new life in all who were part of the church (Ephesians 1). It is, in many respects, very similar to his letter to the Colossian congregation.
In place of Paul’s instructions about the false teaching at Colossae, there is a brief reminder that Jews and Gentiles are together on the same footing before God because of the powerful redemptive work of Jesus (Ephesians 2). As he began to celebrate this amazing grace of God through prayer (Ephesians 3:1), Paul interrupted himself, reminding his readers of the specific calling he had received to know and communicate this divine revelation (Ephesians 3:2–13). Then, Paul resumed his powerful and profound prayer of praise (Ephesians 3:14–21), and launched into an extended metaphor on what it means for the living body of Christ to function in a dark world (Ephesians 4:1–5:20). Very similar to his instructions in Colossians 3, Paul outlined specific behaviors that were expected in Christian households (Ephesians 5:21–6:9).
Paul’s letters from prison address a couple of life issues—the nature of the relationship between master and slave, for instance, when both are Christians, and a proper response to the false teaching that was being promulgated at Colossae. But mostly, these writings paint, in vibrant colors, the character of moral choices in a world that is compromised and broken. Darkness and light are the key metaphors. Evil has wrapped a blanket of pain and harm around all that takes place in the human arena. Jesus is the brilliant light of God, penetrating earth’s atmosphere with grace and reconciliation. Because of Jesus’ physical departure at the ascension, his followers now must step in and become a thousand million points of light, restoring relationships and renewing meaning. Jesus is great, and because of our connection with him, we can be great too. Not for our own sakes, of course, but as witnesses of the eschatological hope that tomorrow’s amazing future of God is something we already participate today. That is why Christianity is the religion of the dawn.
John 6:35, 41-51
Fred Craddock once flew to Winnipeg, Manitoba, to speak at a church conference. Unfortunately, his arrival coincided with the worst snowstorm of the decade. When no one picked him up at the airport, Fred found a taxi willing to brave the whiteouts and drifts in the drive required to get him to his motel. There a message awaited him; he was to call the man who booked him for the conference.
“I’m sorry, Fred,” said the man. “We didn’t count on this blizzard. We’ve had to cancel the conference. In fact, we’re so snowed in here at the church that we can’t even get out there to the motel to pick you up for a meal. You’re on your own.”
The motel was not all that great. It didn’t even have a restaurant. When Fred called the office to find directions to some food place nearby, a woman suggested the coffee shop at the bus depot. It was about a block and a half away. Battling gale force winds and stinging snow, it still took Fred twenty minutes to stumble over there.
The bus depot was dirty. The coffee shop was worse. Even so, an overflow crowd had taken refuge inside its steamy windows. Everyone seemed to know the plight of those who newly entered, for when Fred saw no seats open, kind strangers at a booth shoved over to make space. Soon he was eating a tasteless gray soup.
The door opened again. This time a woman struggled to find her way into the throng. Her lingered entry brought out the man with the greasy apron. “Hey!” he yelled. “Close that door! You’re letting all the cold air in here!”
Like Fred, the woman had to find sanctuary at a table of strangers. When the man with the greasy apron walked over and asked what she wanted, she asked for a glass of water. He returned and asked again, “What do you want?”
“The water will be fine,” she said.
“No,” replied the man. “What do you want to order from the menu?”
“I’m really not hungry,” she answered. “I’ll just stick with the water.”
“Look lady!” came the response. “We’ve got paying customers waiting! If you’re not going to order anything, you’ll have to get out!”
“Can’t I just stay a few minutes and get warmed up?” she asked.
“No way!” he said. “If you don’t want to order, you’ll have to leave!”
So the woman gathered herself and stood to make an exit. Of course, these two had gotten the attention of everyone in the room. As the woman rose, everyone noticed the men on either side of her pushing back their chairs and standing as well. And the men next to them. In a flash, everyone at that table stood and turned to leave, plates still bulging with food. Something like an electric current buzzed through the room, and all at once everyone else got up and moved toward the door.
he man with the greasy apron was startled. “All right! All right!” he said, motioning everyone to sit again. “She can stay!” He even brought her a bowl of soup.
As Fred turned back to his own bowl of broth he found that it tasted better than he remembered. In fact, it reminded him of something but he could not quite recall what. He turned to the stranger next to him and asked, “Do you know her?”
“No,” said the man. “Never saw her before. But if she can’t sit here to get warm, I wouldn’t want to stay in a place like this.”
As Fred paused to leave a short while later, it finally dawned on him that what he had been thinking about when the soup gained its taste was the last time he shared the sacrament of communion. Maybe these mixed strangers in search of shelter were only a pack of isolated bodies. But for a moment the spirit of Jesus warmed the air in the room and they breathed in something of the grace of God that can only come when we eat of his body and drink of his blood.
It sounds terrible to those who don’t understand. But most people get it. Because most of us truly need it.
Application
Mark Twain wrote that when he was fourteen he thought his father was an idiot. “But when I turned twenty-one,” he added, “I was amazed at how much the old man had learned in seven years!” Obviously, Twain himself had learned a thing or two by that time. One hopes we all will learn such things as time goes by.
The strangest thing about maturity is that it sneaks up on us best when we don’t pursue it overmuch. We can do little about age, but maturity comes quickest to those who do not wrestle it down. Malcolm Muggeridge said it beautifully in his own reflections on growing old. He told of nights when he found himself in bed, yet somehow suspended between this world and the next, sensing that things glow with the lights of Augustine’s City of God. His thoughts in that moment of quiet harmony were not about himself, he said, but rather about how wonderful it was to be alive and to know that all things come together and find their purpose in the hand of God.
It is when we reach for what truly matters that we live most truly as ourselves.
Alternative Application (Ephesians 4:25-5:2)
Generations ago, the English poet George Herbert penned a brilliant picture of the near-phantom connection that links us to God. In “The Pulley” he portrayed God at the moment of creation, sprinkling his new human creature with treasures kept in a jar beside him. These were God’s finest resources, given now as gifts to the crown of his universe: beauty, wisdom, honor, pleasure… All were scattered liberally in the genetic recipe of our kind.
When the jar of God’s treasures was nearly empty, God put the lid on it. The angels wondered why God did not finish the human concoction, leaving one great resource still in its container. This last quality, God told the angels, is “rest.” But God would not grant that divine treasure to the human race.
The angels, of course, asked why. Herbert was ready with the divine answer regarding the best mix for the human spirit:
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.
Herbert saw well that the strong talents and marvelous abilities of humankind would make us like impatient children, eager to strike out on our own and find our self-made destinies. Only if God would hold back a sense of full satisfaction from our souls would we search our way back home.
When we use our abilities for our own ends, we tend to destroy what is best in ourselves and others. When, however, we are restless to find the face of God in the divine law’s mirror we find a glimpse of our own best faces reflected back toward us in smile of God’s.
George Matheson, the blind hymn writer, gave the same prayer to the church when he wrote:
Make me a captive, Lord, and then I shall be free.
Force me to render up my sword and I shall conqueror be.
I sink in life’s alarms when by myself I stand;
Imprison me within Thine arms and strong shall be my hand.
My will is not my own ‘til Thou hast made it Thine.
If it would reach a monarch’s throne it must its crown resign.
I only stand unbent amid the clashing strife
When on Thy bosom I have leaned and found in Thee my life.
