Forgive the Tweet

This was a real tweet……

by a “real” reporter who didn’t even let the dust settle on getting all the news out about the tragic news out about the shooting at the newspaper the other day before he knowingly sent out this false tweet.

He no longer works at The Republican, a small newspaper outlet in Massachusetts, having  sent out a tweet about how his 21-year-career was torpedoed by one very foolish tweet and apologizing graciously to all hardworking reporters and POTUS supporters. (He did not mention President Trump in his apology, but, maybe he thought that was covered)

“Folks, My 21-year career as a “journalist,” a fancy term that makes my skin crawl, frankly, came to a screeching halt yesterday with one stupid, regrettable tweet,” Barry wrote. “Can’t take it back; wish I could. My since apologies to all good, hardworking reporters and to POTUS supporters.” …

Obviously he should have thought again, then again, before hitting the tweet button on that original,  offensive tweet. It is not clear if his employer fired him, suggested he resign, or if his resignation came at his own request.

Another tweet came out in the past few days, a troll tweet from, supposedly, the Mayo Clinic, a fake doctor bragging that he tells Trump supporters there is a problem with their pregnancies and they must terminate their actually-healthy babies because of this false condition. The Mayo Clinic has gone all out to assure everyone the tweet is false, and even when I first saw it, I could not believe a doctor—even if he/she would do such a thing—would be stupid enough to put it out on twitter. But, how sad that some person, because of political craziness, has taken the time of a medical facility to have to defend themselves from such a heinous act.  Before someone jumps in and says, “But Trump,” I’m not going to begin to go there. However one feels about their political opponent, no two wrong, cruel acts can make a right, and how on earth can assigning a murderer with an ax to grind against a business a false political motive or the equivalent with the Mayo Clinic going to help one’s cause?

And, my Conservative Friends, reverse the actions and answer the questions the other way.

I KNOW it is possible to get along with people with whom you virulently disagree politically; two of my closest friends are 180 degrees different from me politically. We care for each other, will defend each other to the death….. and know (we KNOW) the other one is wrong—and it doesn’t matter. Because we know the other one is precious and important and valuable.  I have been called a Nazi and a racist, and they have both been angry on my behalf over that, as they know I am neither. (A family member called me a racist).

So, this reporter…… he sincerely apologized. It was really kind of a big deal, but should he have lost his job? When are we ever going to get back to granting forgiveness? If he had said, “Take your MAGA hat and shove it,” it might be different. But, he didn’t. He really did apologize to other reporters for any way he denigrated their work and to people who support Donald Trump—which must have been very difficult for him. Why can’t we say, “You are forgiven; now go cover the news in a fair and more careful manner.”

Good grief, as I understand it, Michael Vick now has a dog. If THAT was allowed, we can forgive many, many things.

Please, let us turn down the rhetoric. Truly, no one wants to hurt children. Truly we must be able to discuss our differences without invoking Hitler and the Nazis. I promise you, if Trump says he is cancelling an election, I will march with you and make sure our Republic continues. If I remember correctly, Obama is the one who said he could be elected to a third term if allowed. Conservatives, while we quietly whispered, “Thank goodness he is NOT allowed,” we did not scream about our rights being taken away. We just did not elect Hillary Clinton after eight years of being unhappy with the way the government had worked. To those on the Right, they will not take our guns. We will fight and keep (because we will standing for fighting for) Second Amendment rights; Hitler may have taken the guns, but Hitler is not here. On the Left, you all keep saying Trump is going step by step to take rights away, but, again, no Hitler here. In 2024, at the latest, he will be gone because he cannot run after 2020.  The people of color who like him are not sellouts; they are Americans. The women who like him are not lesser; they are Americans. The gays and lesbians who like his economic policies are not crazy; they are Americans.

And, I know and cherish the fact that you all are Americans, too.

As was the reporter who foolishly sent this tweet.

I know some people are so hurt and angry on either side that they will not want to do this. But, it is a symptom of how frightening the rhetoric and anger is that I want to:  I don't mind a brisk discussion usually. But I lived through the 60's and 70's. I hope for calmer, more beneficial, more rational times.

Let’s forgive this reporter and let him talk with us. And let him tell all our stories—maybe without prejudice or point of view; just with interest.

It would be a start.

Happy Easter!

Mary Magdalene ran...and ran....until she found Peter and John. "They've taken Him!" she cried, "His body is gone!"

Gully Where Stone was Rolled
to Close & Open Tomb

Peter and John took off, running to the tomb where they knew Jesus had lain hours before. In his Gospel, John, the youngest of the disciples, makes sure to tell us that he got there first, outrunning the older, perhaps larger, Peter. But Peter is the one who went inside, through the miraculously opened door, who saw first the burial clothes of Jesus, the face cloth folded away from the rest.

The two men, not positive what it meant, went home. Mary Magdalene, forgiven, loving, frightened, anguished from the disappearance of His body, stayed.......and Jesus showed up for her, giving her the news to go and tell his other disciples.

Courtyard of Church
of the  Holy Sepulcher

And it began. Jesus talked to different groups of people at different times, in quiet rooms, on the beach, fishing, preparing a meal. I would love to have been with two of them walking to Emmaus where Jesus, hiding his identity from them, explained His appearance in Old Testament Scripture from Moses forward.....

Most of those men and women who saw him in those days after Easter before He left their sight finally for this life, most of them died gruesome, horrific deaths because they had seen Him--and told others. Those who heard them, worked with them, and believed, many of them also died cruelly. They did not die,

though, for a fairy story or a myth.....they died for the Christ whose tomb no longer held Him.

A bit of controversy hovers over the site of Jesus' grave. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher (the outside seen above) stands over one traditional site of the grave. Not far away, another bears a door that says, "He is Risen!" and looks inside like the description given in Scripture of the grave where Jesus was buried. There are, of course, some people who KNOW, but truly, no proof either place.

And the reason no certainty can, really, exist is....He is not there.

Second Possible Tomb

The Romans & religious Jewish leaders immediately started with, "Someone stole it!" That, of course, doesn't explain the people who, saying they had seen the Risen Christ, willingly lived harshly and died willingly in manners of nightmares.

He is not there.

And, that is what we celebrate this Easter Morning.

Happy Easter.

Holy Week, Saturday

How did they get through Saturday, those disciples of Jesus, after that horrific Friday afternoon when He died a criminal’s death, marked by the agony of physical suffering, and no spoken condemnation from that cross. Instead, on the cross, he spoke forgiveness for the ones who nailed him up there, “Father forgive them. They have no idea what they’re doing.”

And neither, truly, did the followers of Jesus. Sabbath started Friday evening, so they, like all good Jews, stopped work, prayed, no doubt stayed together as much as possible. 

Peter remembered his betrayal, three times denying knowledge of and friendship with Jesus…….

John contemplated taking care of Mary, the beloved mother of Jesus, such a responsibility given to him by Jesus in the final moments of His life……

The nine remaining men, strong fishermen, a tax collector, working men all of them, thought of dashed hopes…….

They relived the past three years, his stirring, triumphant words, his astonishing, inexplicable miracles, raising the dead, feeding 5000 men, their wives, their children, trying to figure out what went wrong……..

They prayed for, what? A sign? Another leader? A greater, bigger, grander miracle? 

Here is the Western Wall, the holiest site in the Jewish faith, last remaining part of the Temple in Jerusalem at that

time. No doubt, the Jewish leaders felt triumphant attending services that Sabbath.....back in charge, another minor trouble maker tossed aside by history. Before long, Jesus of Nazareth would fade to history, his followers scattered, his teachings erased.

The women and men who had followed Jesus, walked with him around Palestine, seen—and participated in—three amazing years of hope……now sat stunned, waiting, confidence crushed on that previous Friday afternoon, courage stymied. They had the Sabbath, the day set aside by God to rest, to refresh. Heartbroken and afraid, the followers of Christ huddled and waited.

Till, finally, in marched Sunday morning.

Holy Week--Friday

A trial for the ages……and to placate the Jews. Pilate’s wife warned him, “Do not do what they want you to do.” What did this ‘local’ matter really have to do with Rome anyway. Except, of course, all matters had to do with Rome if it kept those under Roman rule from becoming unruly.

The Jewish high priest, Caiaphas, had passed Jesus along to Pilate. After all, the crowd screamed for Jesus’ blood, and after Jesus answered an important theological question (“Are you the Son of God?”) by denying them a denial but, rather, by quoting scripture at them, Caiaphas, and the other priests, scribes, and all Jews with any interest in the status quo screamed for Jesus’ death. The mighty Roman Empire alone, though, could exercise state-sanctioned capital punishment. So, off to Pilate they went.

And Pilate’s wife shared her dream. “Have nothing to do with that Righteous Man.” And why? Did she know something Pilate didn’t? Had the servants been talking?

No. Rather, “.....for last night I suffered greatly in a dream because of Him.” (All italics mine).

Pilate had such trust in his wife that, while he didn’t believe the angry mob in front of him would allow him to just release Jesus, he came up with what he believed an out for himself. He gave the crowd a choice. Before Passover, Pilate traditionally released a prisoner.  “I’ll release this man Jesus……or that no good thieving, scoundrel Barabbas.” One of the Gospels called Barabbas “notorious.”

And the crowd cried, “Release Barabbas!”

“And what of Jesus?” You can almost hear Pilate’s voice quiver. There was, after all, his wife with whom to contend. But, no hesitation or softening of sound from the mob watching. “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!”

Pilate washed his hands. “I am innocent of this man’s blood!” Oh, is it that easy to pass the buck? “I COULD stop this wrong…..but, on your head be it.”

And the throng howled, “His blood will be on our heads,” and, then, if already we do not wonder at their frenzy, if we are not shocked at how lightly they toss aside the life of a Man from whom they had taken teachings and miracles and bread and healing and love and life, hear the horde bawl, “on our heads……and the heads of our children.”

I do not know, of course, we cannot know. But this Christ who so loved children (“Do NOT stop little children from coming to me!” He had commanded His disciples) must have felt His heart, already so broken and battered from a night of betrayal and rejection from people He had loved so fiercely at the cry for the curse falling onto innocents—people so consumed with hatred of a blameless man, the Son of God, that they easily and gladly passed blame to their children, must have felt the break in His heart grow even bigger.

Some of the Caves from
Sign above

Pilate, then, having whipped Jesus earlier, handed Him over. In such caverns as shown here, the Roman soldiers—egged on, helped?, by the frenzied Jews—stripped Jesus, put on him a royal purple robe to mock that title “King of the Jews.”  Taking a plant like a vine of thorns, they constructed an artificial crown and rammed it on his head, blood now coursing into his eyes, so much

Caves from Sign Above

so that they thought beating Him about the head would make some kind of point, all reason well gone by this time.

And, finally, Jesus carried the cross bar of His crucifixion down that Via Delarosa—“The Way of Suffering”—the traditional path He walked out Jerusalem to Golgotha, “The Place of the Skull.” The picture of that spot here was taken in the 1960’s. In that picture, a skull can still emerge from the hillside as you look, though certainly blurred after 2000 years of elemental wear. Imagine the reality of that skull face looking out on the road in the First Century. In the 21^st Century, the face on the hill has faded away, or I could find no outline of it. But that place still stands there, a reminder of that Friday afternoon, of that one particular, significant execution.

Calvary, 1960's
"Place of the Skull"

The beautiful paintings show Jesus high up on a hill, His cross above those of the two men crucified with Him. Probably, though, the men were nailed to crosses on the road, visible to all who walked within sight of that Skull Hill and those three dying men. “Let this be a warning…..Mighty Rome could do this to you as well……..” No beauty in that scene.

Watching along the road, Mary, Jesus’ mother. How did she bear it?

The soldiers whose job it was to carry out this execution mixed with sightseers. Public executions happened in all kinds of cultures word wide until recently, it seems.

Other followers of Jesus watched their dreams fade as His blood drained down that cross, down a hill, down the road. We know John, that youngest of the disciples, watched with Mary, Jesus’ mother.

Even then, Jesus saw to the needs of those around Him. His beloved mother now would live with that young disciple, John. If, as Protestants believe (and I am a Protestant) Mary and Joseph had other children after Jesus, He did not trust the care of his beloved mother to them.

Jesus also looked to His side, to a thief being crucified at the same time as Him, one who recognized the difference of Jesus and other men…..”Today, you and me, in Paradise.”

What a wealth in that sentence.

And then, from that despicable, appalling, shameful, vile cross, the Son of God cried, “It is finished!” Even now, we do not understand completely all the work completed on that cross.

And from a Roman soldier, “Surely this was the Son of God.” Such was the impact of His death.

I wonder, as Jesus’ spirit left His poor, broken, scarred body, I wonder if angels in Heaven heaved sighs. “Finally!” What did Heaven look like that day when Jesus and the thief from the other cross met again—Jesus’ promise kept. “Today, you and me, Paradise.”

I wonder how God the Father held back the archangel Michael, that mighty warrior, from coming to wreak havoc and revenge on those mere humans who had so wickedly handled the body of the Son of God……..

A First Century Tomb
with  Ossuaries

Because they wanted to bury the body, not for altruistic reasons, but to be sure it was buried and so that no one could say anything crazy like, oh, Jesus had risen from the dead, the Jewish leaders made absolutely sure Jesus was dead on that cross.  Then, a wealthy follower, Joseph of Arimathea, provided a nice grave—much nicer than anyone in Jesus’ earthly family could have given.  They prepared the body as best they could in the time they had—Sabbath began at sundown—put Him in that cave, rolled a huge stone in front of it, a stone like a big disk pushed along a small gulley in front just for that purpose, persuaded  Rome to position guards, and went away satisfied their work was

done, complete.

If they only knew.

The disciples and followers of Christ went away….to hide, to pray, to cry, to grieve. He had told them, but who could understand what He truly meant by “resurrection”? By “be not afraid?” All their dreams and hopes for overthrowing Rome, all their aspirations for helping Jesus rule over their hated enemies. They went away, some together, some alone, as their world fell apart……

If they only knew.

 

Calvary Today

Palm Sunday--Holy Week Begins

Yesterday was Palm Sunday. Ah, I knew this time would draw me back to last June, those too-few days in that enchanted, mysterious, captivating country of Israel.

2000 years ago, the Gospels tell us, as they walked towards Jerusalem, Jesus sent a couple of his disciples ahead of Him to borrow a donkey. Some scholars believe the donkey to be a beast of peace, as opposed to my beloved horses, often depicted as animals of war.

Other descriptions of Christ in the New Testament have him riding a white stallion, indeed, leading the soldiers of righteousness to a final battle. But, before that victory, the humble donkey carried the Lamb to the city where His sacrifice would happen.

The disciples said to the donkey's owner, who, of course, had questions about people just taking their donkey away, "The Lord needs it." Apparently, that's all it took.

Jesus rode to the city via the Mount of Olives. You can see the Mount of Olives

from about anywhere in Jerusalem, or anywhere I was, and certainly from the Old City. And the people put palm fronds in front of him, calling out praises, crying over him, making the religious establishment lose their minds. It seems from the back of this humble donkey, Christ wept over Jerusalem, heartbroken for the fate He knew to come, distraught at their lack of belief. After Jesus entered Jerusalem (a model of ancient Jerusalem shown here), he dismounted the donkey, entered the temple, and threw out all the merchants there using a Holy place as a place for stealing. He had no patience for misuse of His Father's house.

This is the holiest week in Christendom. No doubt, pilgrims walk those cobbled streets this week in Jerusalem reliving those last earthly days of Christ, hearing men (and some women) with descriptive gifts far better than mine bringing to life the places and the time from 2000 years ago, crossing the years, making history present, as that ancient land so easily does.

After His

triumphal entry into Jerusalem, after His tossing merchants and money out of the Temple like so many miscreant shopkeepers, the religious leaders of His day wanted to kill Jesus even more than before....and not long afterwards, one of his closest friends betrayed Him over disappointment of expectations and the lure of silver, and those envious, ungodly religious leaders got their wish.

Or so they thought.

I wish I was there in that land that draws me back....but, even now, I close my eyes and see the desert, feel the heat, dry, dusty, ageless, reach my hands to caress the rough, ancient stones, walk the narrow streets--the very streets Jesus walked. I quietly sit.....shut out the world.....close my eyes.....remember......and I am there.

Remembering Israel-Holy Thursday

After Jesus' triumphant entry into Jerusalem on what we now call Palm Sunday and His clearing of the Temple, scholars believe Jesus returned to Bethany, thought  to be about a mile and a half distance, on what is now the West Bank. Walking didn’t require a fit-bit in those days; to get from here to  there, frequently you just walked, and Jesus and the disciples likely hoofed it along quickly. We know Jesus taught that week, maybe back in Bethany, maybe both or other places.  A walk of a mile-and-a-half would not merit a gold star in a chart on the fridge. It would just be a Tuesday—or, in that Holy Week, perhaps a Thursday.

For sure, Jesus returned with his disciples to “the Upper Room” for the Passover meal—a Seder Meal—with these disciples, most of whom He knew would eventually die for

Stained Glass of Last Supper
 (on top)
Jerusalem

their devotion to Him. He wanted to prepare them, to not have them be shocked by His death, to, again, assure them He would never truly leave them, convince them of His love, of God’s providence, that, no matter what circumstances might appear to be on the cusp of drowning them, overwhelming them, in that “dark night of the soul,” they actually, truthfully, really would not be alone, even if they could not see and touch Him as at that last Seder meal. John, the youngest of the chosen 12, would ask the traditional questions of Passover, beginning with, “Why is this night different from all others?

After they asked these questions, Jesus, that Hebrew boy who grew into the Hebrew man, answered

those same traditional questions being asked and answered all over Israel, particularly Jerusalem, at that same time. They ate the Passover meal, the tradition begun hundreds of years before Christ celebrated with his disciples, begun on that very first night the angel of death passed over houses marked with lamb's blood when the Israelites prepared to leave Egypt, the traditional meal that continues today. For Christians this foretells of the sacrificial Lamb whose blood would redeem, that Lamb even on that evening 2000 years ago concentrating on the Passover meal with His friends, not distracted by the dread to come or, it appears, the redemption worked by His sacrifice the next night. Jesus lived for each day on the day. During that meal Jesus sent Judas off to commit his treasonous act. “Hurry and get it over with.” How His heart must have broken to have this man, his follower—his friend—betray him so cruelly.

Before Judas met those conspirators against Jesus had time to return and find Jesus to turn Him over to those who wanted to kill Him, Jesus took his disciples to the Garden of Gethsemane so He could pray. He left them, went a bit further, begged to find another way—any other way—than the path He knew to come, and returned to find the disciples asleep. Well, it was late, they had just eaten a big meal. He wanted them to pray as He was praying.

Garden of Gethsemane

But, if the disciples had managed to pray together as Christ prayed farther away from them that night, would Peter have acknowledged himself a follower of Jesus a few hours later rather than betraying Him three times before that crowing rooster sounded the soon arrival of morning? Would a prayer at that time have mattered, and did Jesus, wanting to spare them more fear and shame to come, encourage them again and again, “Pray…. pray……pray.”  But, He would not force them. God will not force communication with His children.

Then Judas appeared,

performed with the kiss of friendship the deed for which he would not later seek forgiveness. Judas could not have known the series of events his one act of perfidy would beget. But, Jesus knew…..and if Judas lived to mourn that act, he didn’t live long, not able to bear the repercussions, not capable to deal with the guilt. Even so, Jesus never gave any other idea but that He could, at any time during that Thursday night have stopped any of these steps towards that monstrous death to which He steadily headed. As Peter grabbed a sword and cut off the ear of one of servants of the High Priest to try to protect Jesus, Jesus gently scolded him, returned the ear, likely before the servant realized exactly what had happened (did it really get cut off and put back on?), and assured them all that He could call legions of angels--if he wanted. 

What must all those men have thought upon seeing this? As the story moved among them ("Did you see that? What? Really? He did what?") what must that crowd of cruel, hardened soldiers thought. 

And, what did those legions of angels think from Heaven? The song says, "Angels from Heaven up  yonder watch with amazement and wonder to see the Son of the Highest treated so."

Indeed.

A great irony is that the purpose for which Jesus allowed Judas to betray him, so that Jesus could make Himself that sacrifice on the cross, that ransom Jesus paid after Judas’ betrayal, covered and absolved even the monstrous duplicity of a follower of the Son of God by a loved friend. Judas did not find final destruction from the guilt and grief because of his unfathomable betrayal ; his ultimate downfall was, as for so many humans throughout history, that he could not, he would, not accept forgiveness from the act of Sacrifice Jesus performed that Friday afternoon. Judas refused pardon freely offered to us all.

That cross, truly, is enough.

Periodically, when I heap upon myself condemnation for the sins of commission, omission, permission, all kinds of –mission, I have to stop and say, “You’re not the one…..you’re not the one the cross doesn’t cover.” Judas could not believe because he would not believe Jesus’ words from those three years he had lived and worked with Him. Even the other disciples, after Jesus’ death, cowered, hid, fearful of the coming days, weeks, months, of the unknown future. Judas, feeling responsible by that time for the loss of everything, all he had hoped for, all he had thought he hoped for, killed himself after throwing the silver, the price of his duplicity and disloyalty, back in the faces of the men who had paid him and who, by now, could have cared less. They had what they wanted, believing themselves free of this rural rabble rouser, this Nazarene preacher who threatened their authority.

The mock trial (millions of others’ words explain the bogus actions of that trial well past what I could explain), Peter’s betrayal—Peter, who during that Seder meal had sworn his loyalty could not—WOULD not be in any way questioned—Peter could hardly warm his hands fast enough to swear and deny Christ with his own words and actions. As his final denial ended, Jesus, in the middle of a trial for his life, being accused of false actions and intent, turned and looked at Peter. Brown eyes met brown eyes, and Peter’s shame stopped his words as he turned and ran in disgrace from the courtyard where so many watched to see just what would happen with this preacher, prophet, perhaps faker, on trial here.

Statue of Peter's Betrayal

Thursday night, the trial of Christ continued. The Jews felt pressure to hurry, because the Sabbath, a day on which they could not do any work—like burying someone—would soon be upon them. A Roman Caesar, his wife, Jewish religious leaders, and a mob pondered Jesus’ fate as He stood quietly, so few words, having made His peace with what was to come.

Ready for His purpose and His part in history, Jesus patiently waited for the humans around Him to play their roles. A Roman Caesar, his wife, Jewish religious leaders, and a mob….and Thursday crawled into Friday.

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