The Land Sings

The land sings at different times to seekers. Always, whispers rise, enticing one to look further, gaze longer, listen more closely, until terrain comes alive. But, frequently, the Holy Land uses one place, one ancient story to animate ageless sites where so long ago people lived and loved and laughed and fought and died.

On a trip to that mystical, marvelous, spiritual land, it happened to me as with so many others. Unexpectedly, the land hummed, I felt, more than heard, words form, then the ageless earth awoke…and my heart cracked a bit with the suddenness of it, and the tears fell, and as I looked around, the world stirred, and sang to me.

               We looked over another ancient city, one where the Greeks or Romans had (I need to study a few decades to get them straight) constructed a theater where we hoped to have morning worship; another group had claimed that convenient spot first. So, as our group explored other rooms and posts and the world of the ancients below, I stood above looking down, contemplating taking my sore feet down the ramp to explore the rooms. Enticing as that seemed, the coming back up gave me pause.

Mt. Gilboa--Where Saul & Jonathan Died

     

          Beside me, one of our leaders stood and looked as well. As happens, a conversation began:  “Right up there,” he pointed to the top of a mountain across from us, “is where the Philistines hung Saul and Jonathan’s bodies after they defeated them.”

Flannel Story Board

               I froze. The story of David and Jonathan moves me still—even after hearing it so often as such a young child in Sunday School where—before technology took over all presentations—my teachers used well-worn flannel boards, placing a boy, “David,” and his friend, “Jonathan,” sometimes able to change their robes, telling the story to rows of children enraptured with the flat, cloth characters. And here I stood, looking up and up and up—everything is “up” in Israel—and

seeing the place, the very spot where the bodies of Saul, Jonathan’s father, the king who lost his mind and his kingdom, his followers and his family, and Saul’s sons hung in disgrace, mocked by their
enemies, God’s anointed brought to disgrace. I felt the tears and turned to find privacy—among the 4,782, or so, tourists around me. However, none of them minded me. Perhaps the earth sang to them as well.

               So closely did I feel Jonathan and David from that point that I had to find the story again. In the Old Testament—there in the land of the Old Testament—I Samuel tells of their friendship. After

David and Goliath

the young shepherd boy David kills the giant Goliath, King Saul seeks a meeting.  Then, the son of the King meets the shepherd boy, and the Bible says, “Now it came about when he had finished speaking to Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as himself,” (I Samuel 18:1).  The relationship grew; eventually, Jonathan and David became brothers-in-law, as David married Michal, Saul’s daughter. But, Saul grew so envious of David’s increasing popularity with the people, he sought to kill him, and Jonathan, loyal son, loyal friend, found himself caught in the middle.

               Over and over, he protected David, even as Saul stalked David to kill him, even as Saul flew into rages when he found Jonathan did not help in the effort to rid Saul of this annoyance who he saw as a rival, even then, Jonathan stayed faithful to David. Over and over the Scripture emphasizes Jonathan’s love for David; we see David’s care for Jonathan. But the words “he (Jonathan) loved him (David) as his own life” show up in one form or fashion over and over…..Though at times, Saul seemed to recover from the all-encompassing envy and hate he felt towards David, never again could David and Jonathan enjoy their companionship as they had has young men. The words “covenant” and “love” and “vow” litter the story of Jonathan and David, two friends who lost each other.

                

               Now, in this land, seeing caves and hills where David might have actually run, the story still feels such present tense, and David again flees. They live their lives as they can—one hiding out, one ruling and chasing, and Jonathan? How torn he must have been. The friend of his childhood, who he loved so strongly, and his father, who he also surely loved, with whom he shared that lifetime of memories, now unable to find sanity regarding one innocent man.

Caves where David migith have hidden from Saul

Eventually Saul and his sons and his troops go to fight the Philistines. Saul sees his sons die at his feet. How can any parent read those words and not ache at the thought of it, especially knowing you caused that loss? Too injured to fight or run, rather than be captured, Saul falls on his own sword.

I love the next words:  the “valiant men” of Jabesh-gilead walked all night to retrieve the bodies of Saul and his sons.  Their king would not be treated so...

And David? When he heard that the man who tried so long, so very long, to kill him had died—King Saul and his sons, including the beloved Jonathan—he cried out a dirge for nine verses in II Samuel 1. Words like “Your beauty, O Israel, is slain,” and “Saul and Jonathan, beloved and pleasant in their life,” call out from the page, wailing David’s broken heart, exploding his grief for his King and his friend. No relief that he can stop running; no “He got his!” attitude. Only grief, deep, searing, stabbing grief at the loss of his King and his friend. David led his people in mourning…and his grief stayed with him, I believe, a lifetime.

Eventually, after more fighting and politics, David, who could not forget his friend, seeks “anyone left of the house of Saul……for Jonathan’s sake.” Sorrow did not leave, even after other battles and wars. They find Mephiboseth, Jonathan’s son, crippled in both feet as a young child when his nurse fell while fleeing with him.  David brings him to the palace, assuages his fear, gives him servants to work land for him, and assures him always of a place at his table—because of his love for Jonathan, the young man whose soul knit with his as a youngster, for whom he surely still kept a soul-knit remnant in his heart, even after so many years of anger and grief, pillage and war.

Mephiboseth’s story moves me as much as his father’s.  In my own life, a series of

Mephiboseth

unexpected and strange events led to my own problems with both feet. Though I have better medical care than Mephiboseth, I have spent time understanding the limits physical handicaps can impose. Thankfully, recent treatment and time have eased my own difficulties. But, for this this young boy, so hurt, so afraid, later taken in and loved by the great friend of his father…..this story in the land of its occurrence brought to life for me the reality of these people.  To want to run or even walk and have physical injury hamper your movements frightens in this modern day and age; how much worse in a time when a young man knew his feet would hurt and fail him the rest of his life? David’s kindnesses must have felt a miracle.

Thousands of years ago, David lived. Jonathan lived. They cared for each other, and they lost each other through no fault of their own. As I stood and looked up at the top of that mountain where the Kingdom of Saul fell (Beth-shan in the Bible) I could almost see mighty, ancient armies in the valley below me, hear the clanging of armor, banging of swords and crying of men, see the bodies of Israel’s leaders hanging in shame.  At that moment, in that place, the Holy Land started her song to me, enticing me with the power she has to bring the past into the present.

A waving hat startled me, broke the spell, carried me from the ageless past to the very present. “Let’s go!” came the call. Time to find the bus, go to the next unforgettable site.

For all of us, a different place, a different time, a different song woke that world. But, oh, indeed, that ancient land sings, and now that song calls me back, if not physically, then emotionally and spiritually. The land does, indeed, sing.

The City of David

Twelve Years a Woman

Twelve years grows a baby up to middle school age. Twelve years rushes a person from late middle age to retirement. Twelve years matures a teenager into adulthood. Twelve years…..

For twelve years the woman suffered from what the Bible calls “an issue of blood.” In that time, women having the “regular flow of blood” as well as a “discharge of blood” at any time other than her period is unclean—meaning she could not be touched or touch, could have no physical intimacy, couldn’t prepare food for others or do housework. Levitical law is specific with this.

If she had a husband, he might well have been long gone; divorce didn’t take a lot of work in those days.  Where she got money, her father, perhaps the husband who left her, really we just don’t know. But she used what money she had going from one doctor to another:  “Can you help me? Can you make this blood stop flowing?” She searched and tried until no money remained, no more to even try to help, and hope, that last gasping lifeline for the desperate, faded away, a disappearing illusion in a fog of anguish, having became not only no better, but actually worse, from her frantic searches for a cure. Very likely, she lived her life alone, by law unclean, unable to mingle with others, avoided by family and friends. By touching her, they would be unclean, unable to enter the Synagogue or Temple on Sabbath, on holy days, having no choice, no matter their desires, to associate with this fragile, ill woman.

This illness, in addition to the social repercussions, likely made her anemic….tired…..and every woman now thinking for ten seconds just groans at the thought of it…….twelve years. (Any man who lives with a woman no doubt groans in sympathy as well). With hope gone, I wonder did she reconcile herself to a life small and lonely? Or, standing outside the Synagogue, I wonder if maybe she floated a prayer:  “Please, God.” Of course, she might have been more specific, longer. But, at the end of hope, out of options, maybe "Please, God" was all she could muster.

We do know this…..somehow she heard about Jesus. She heard that a Healer was abroad in the land. Perhaps someone who loved her ran to her lonely, singular house….”Listen, listen! There’s a teacher….a preacher….a healer! And, he’s coming here, like NOW! You have to go see him! They say he even raises the dead! Maybe he can help you!” After so much……….so much time, so much money, so much despair, so much illness……could it be true?

Did she dare hope?

After the woman arrived where Jesus met the crowd, after seeing Him interact with hurting, needy people for just a bit, the woman grew certain Jesus could help her. At the same time, Jesus also dealt with a synagogue official, desperate over an ill daughter. People, crowded together as in a First Century Times Square, pressed in around Jesus, the twelve disciples there, everyone starting off to trek with Jesus and the father to help with the daughter.  The woman watched Him start to walk away…..and knew, just knew she could not miss this chance!  

Maybe she wrapped a scarf around her face to keep the crowd from recognizing her, maybe the crowd so concentrated on Jesus, they just did not recognize her, but, somehow, she quietly slipped through the people, behind this one, in front of another, between these two, kneeling a bit, reaching…… reaching…..reaching…….re-a-c-h—and just barely, lightly brushed the hem of Jesus’ robe. And she knew instantly she was healed!

Immediately Jesus stopped! In my mind, I see Peter and the other disciples, perhaps trying to protect Jesus from the crowd bumping into Him from behind, similar to the dwarfs colliding into Snow White, not seeing his sudden halt. No doubt, that was NOT the case, but we know Jesus stopped quickly and looked around. The Bible tells us He knew immediately that “power had gone out of Him.”

“Who,” he asked, “touched me?”

The disciples looked around at the crowd surging around them, pressing in close, wanting to see Jesus perform a miracle, no doubt some with faith, no doubt some wanting a good show. The close quarters made it difficult to move and not touch someone. Jesus wondered who touched Him?

Peter looked around, then at Jesus. “Who didn’t?”

But, the woman knew He had caught her.

You see, when a woman of faith touches the living Son of God, they both know it.

I want to touch Him that way.

As the woman came forward, Jesus told her, “Your faith has made you well; go in peace and be healed of your affliction.”

Faith……peace…....healing.

We don’t know of her life after this appearance in the Gospels, but surely she found family or friends with whom to live……..Oh, I hope so. I want to find her in Heaven, want to tell her how deeply her story touched me, want to listen to her tell me that sensation when she brushed Jesus’ robe with her fingers, the expression on His face when he looked at her, what her heart felt when His loving voice said, “Your faith has made you well….”

 My guess is she doesn’t tire of telling that story. Such a short time she appears in the Gospels, the longest section in Mark’s gospel, which, we are told, might be based on Peter’s memories. If so, did Peter mull over that time Jesus said, “Who touched me?” as a crowd rushed Him, Peter and the other disciples watching in wonder a small, ill, now healed, woman capturing the attention of Jesus, perhaps not for long, but certainly completely?

I love the story, and I love to imagine the different ways it affected the different people in it. How much better to lie in bed, retelling in my mind the story of a woman healed by Christ than to replay a hurtful situation in my life I cannot change, to put myself in that Biblical story, imagine the woman, see Jesus stop, the disciples bumping into each other and Christ…..”Your faith….go in peace….be healed.”

And if I can get out of myself and into the Scripture, just perhaps, I can hear Him speak to me.

Mark 5:25-34