July 16, 2006 – Sixth Sunday after Pentecost
Text: 2 Samuel 6:1, 1-19
The Burden and Blessing of Holiness
On Saturday, July 8, I spent the day at the beach with Vickie, Jasmine and Nora. After a most difficult week, being at the beach—even for this non-beach lover—was a nice change of pace—even if only for twenty-four hours. In a rare moment for our family, we all ended up on the beach at the same time, including our dog, Philip. With my book in hand, I positioned my chair at the ocean’s edge, hoping that the gentle waves could restore a bit of life to my tired feet and weary soul. Lost in the cool breeze and the sounds of seagulls and children’s laughter—not of cell phones and the clicking of computer keys—I glanced up to see Jasmine and Nora walking bravely into the deeper waters holding each other’s hand. In that moment, as the tears welled up in my eyes, I knew I was glimpsing something holy. I can’t tell you how I know it was a holy moment—but it was. In a sister relationship that is often filled with sharp, cutting words; jealousy; and competitiveness, I saw, if for only a moment, a different side to Jasmine’s and Nora’s sisterhood—it was the side of love and tenderness; of togetherness and protection. And there was blessing in that holy moment.
At another
moment in my life, years before—to be precise, it was Tuesday, October 19, 1999—I
stood beside the death bed of Monroe Gardner. His wife, A.J., stood next to me.
The room was still.
Each of these occasions seems so different. One appears to be about rest and play and sunshine and sisters who, for one moment, took each other’s hands and went into the wide ocean, together, and I, their mother, wept. And with Monroe, in a completely different realm and time, a bleak hospital room, a long illness, much suffering, and then this incredible peace, this quiet descending, and I, the minister, with not a word to say. I cannot forget that moment when he died, when the room, the moment, his life, his wife’s, and all that was in me seemed filled with holiness.
I would not trade these two moments—the one watching my children, the one watching a good man die—for these moments were surely holy blessings, and I was privileged to witness them. But such feelings of awe do not always accompany holiness. Sometimes holiness feels more like a burden, and we would like to pass it off like a particularly hard committee meeting or a difficult evening with people who do not share our interests or passions. We’d just as soon be in the real world, with the television set blaring and supper on the table and a cool drink in our hand— with our ordinary feelings for ordinary times.
Our
scripture today recounts the story of David’s flawed attempt to be a leader, to
assume the rights and privileges of a leader, and to transport the ark—the holy
of holies—to the city of
Modern day disciples, especially liberal, well-educated folks like us, seem to be of two minds about holiness. Many of us are trying to escape holiness because we perceive it to be deeply evangelical, or perhaps because we feel that we have no place before the altar of God, are not worthy to sit at God’s table, and can never look directly upon the face of God without turning away from the light that is unbearable. Still others of us court and woo the holy, but do so through gimmicks that never give us quite the peace we desire—and certainly no feeling of blessing or awe. We love good feelings—but not holy ones, and so we settle for a weak compromise and finding no ground entirely sacred, stand on no sacred ground. This Western sensibility plagues and diminishes our joy, our holiness. We must be doing, not contemplating; we know little of the burden and blessing of quieting ourselves, of listening and watching and waiting for the moment of holiness to catch us unaware.
I fear that those of us who have tried to take the holy and make it more accessible may have gone too far. We have become rather casual about our relationship to God, about worship and about the most significant moments of our lives—births, commitment rituals, and death. The Hebrews had a profound sense of holiness and took it very seriously—even to the point of being unwilling to utter the name of Yahweh. Only later did civilization and society bring in the friendly vowels, which make access to the very name of God so easy to say. As we read again and again in the Hebrew scripture, the Hebrews were fearful, not with terror but with awe—with the holy. They knew that to approach the holy of holies was a moment that carried great risk, involved great faith, and required great courage.
In moving the ark, David had an awesome responsibility, a burden that might or might not be a blessing. He knew the rules. Uzzah, the priest, knew the rules. Touching the ark was a violation of all that was holy. Even moving the ark required a certain attitude of holiness, as when a Muslim washes her hands before reading the Koran, or a Jew covers his head on holy and unholy days. One of the main requirements for moving the ark was that the ark had to be transported on four poles carried by Levites, certainly not on a cart pulled by an ox. So when the ox stumbles and Uzzah instinctively reaches to steady the ark and keep it from falling to the ground, Uzzah is immediately struck dead by the hand of God, and we are amazed at this act of seeming cruelty. This is perhaps the most puzzling part of the story—no mercy is shown to Uzzah, no excuse is permitted for the mishandling of the holy of holies. Surely, all of us would do the same were a precious treasure of ours headed for the ground.
It’s odd that those involved in transporting the ark could let something so important—the exact procedures of transporting the ark—be done so casually. Could it be that in our own worship practices we are guilty of similar acts of carelessness—seeking the familiar and the comfortable rather than the mysterious and inexplicable? Is it more important to feel good when we come to worship or to be struck dumb by the holiness of God? Is it more important to observe rituals of worship while our minds wander or to listen and to discern the presence of God in this sanctuary? Is it more important to be entertained by those leading worship or be challenged to go deeper in silence or movement?
After Uzzah is struck dead, David is upset, some would say, given the circumstances, rightly so. But the violation of the ark, at least for the Hebrews and for God, seems inexcusable in any context. We wonder, in our more relaxed attitudes toward worship, toward the holy, how such a terrible scene could play itself out before David’s eyes. If David thought for one minute that he was free to conduct this ark as he pleased, he was sorely mistaken. David, who offered sacrifices repeatedly to God, who never failed to turn to God in ecstasy or sorrow, must have grown tired of his responsibilities. Faced with the burden of the holy, he asks, “How can the ark of the Lord come into my care?” David is shaken, unnerved. He seems strangely quick to abandon the ark and to leave it in the household of Obededom, whose family the ark later blesses.
Sometimes holiness feels too heavy. We don’t know how to stand in silent awe, to pay sacred honor by our silence to the beauty of creation; to the act of prayer (which is not an act but a state of being); to the workings of the spirit (which are not our work). Instead, we make a list, form a committee, and busy ourselves so that we are numb with not feeling and not sensing God.
We are so sophisticated that perhaps we are embarrassed by what we imagine “holiness” to mean. It is not the Pentecostal or evangelical excess that many have heard about or grown up with and have come to Pullen to escape. Rather, holiness is quiet, and involves a state of mind more like that of the contemplative East than the can-do West. Feeling the burden and responsibility of such holiness, David unloads the burden for three long months at Obededom’s house. Sometimes, when life is too much, it becomes necessary to ask those we trust and those who love us to hold the holy in our lives, if only for a brief time. It’s a blessing we give ourselves and others.
One of the most telling aspects of the story comes near the end, after David has finally, months later and after great difficulty, transported the ark to the city. His first response is overwhelming joy. He dances in the streets. He incurs the wrath of Michal, Saul’s daughter, who doubtless has many motives but is nonetheless described as “despising” him at the moment. Have you ever noticed that people do not encourage joy? That they feel uncomfortable with reverence? That the quiet nature of holiness makes them feel left out? If you grew up in the Baptist church, you may never have experienced more than one minute of utter silence, total contemplation. In fact, you very likely would feel anxious and afraid to be in the presence of that awesome silence. There would be coughing, fidgeting. Some might leave the sanctuary. Some would object that their time was being wasted. Still others would imagine that the minister was unprepared and was trying to cover up for it. Yes, it seems that many of us are uncomfortable with both the blessing and the burden of holiness. We know not how to sit in its profound silence or dance in its joyful presence.
And yet, the holy is all around us and all in us—the eagle flying above, the embrace of a friend, the silence of death, the laughter of children, the despair of lost dreams, the hope of love found again. It is in the ordinary and the extraordinary. This morning, David invites us to ponder anew how we will manage both the burdens and the blessings of holiness. Will we meet the holy with casualness? Or will we, like the Hebrews, approach the holy knowing that to do so involves great risk, great faith, and great courage?