First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Judges 14:1-14
When our daughter Julie was very young….and very small….we never went anywhere without taking along a bag of her favorite books. Which we read aloud to her, over and over again. Most of which we memorized. As did she. But she never tired of hearing them, even though we tired of reading them. And woe be unto anyone who skipped a page, the better to cover the material quickly. The penalty for that breach of literary etiquette was the requirement to go back to the beginning and start all over.
We read it all. We read the Dr. Suess stuff. We read the Richard Scarry stuff. But never did we skip a bedtime without reading Mickey Mouse’s Joke Book. As to why that topped the list, I didn’t know then….and I don’t know now. But when I stopped in the middle of this paragraph to call Julie….at work….in Atlanta….to ask if she remembered it, she not only remembered it, but told me where (in the basement) I could find it.
The humor is basic stuff with a heavy dependence on riddles. Her favorite page featured Goofy rushing to his new job at the Eagle Laundry, causing Mickey to ask him what he did there. The answer: “Wash eagles, of course.” And the accompanying picture depicted several bald eagles…. still dripping with water and suds….fastened to a clothesline with big wooden clothespins. Of course, to appreciate the humor, a kid would have to be familiar with a clothesline and wooden clothespins. Which most aren’t….and haven’t been for 20 years.
All of us cut our teeth on riddles. And some of us still sharpen our teeth on riddles. Every culture has them. No language is without them. Even pre-literary people enjoyed them. Some riddles take new forms in changing times. When I was a child, we asked: “What’s black and white, and red (read) all over?” The answer: “A newspaper.” In the ‘70s, however….when the mood of the young turned cynical and the humor, macabre….we asked: “What’s black and white and red all over?” To which the answer came back: “A nun in a blender.” Indeed, there are Ph.D. dissertations which undertake, as their sole purpose, the analysis of a nation’s humor as the barometer of a nation’s mood.
Many years ago, a young man constructed a riddle to mystify his contemporaries. And it is his riddle that both highlights this morning’s text and occasions this morning’s sermon. The young man is Samson (of Samson and Delilah fame). But Delilah is not yet on the scene and, in no way, figures in the story. This is the period of the judges (along about 1150 B.C.), when Israel was ruled….somewhat loosely….by a number of regional chieftains. For those wishing to place things in proper context, this period comes after Moses, but before David. Samson is one of these judges.
Not necessarily the brightest guy to ever come down the pike, we tend to remember Samson for his legendary strength. ‘Twas said that with nothing more than the jawbone of an ass, he could rout whole armies. And while that may have been stretching things a bit, you get the picture. That strength comes into play in this morning’s story, as does the other thing for which Samson is known….namely, his roving eye and his less-than-prudent assessment of women. Which makes his story more timely than I knew when I picked it. But let’s not go there. At least not today.
Back to the story. While wandering in the village of Timnah, Samson notices a certain young woman who pleases him. Whereupon he returns home and says to his mother and father: “She’s the one. I want her. Go get her.” It being the duty of the parents, you see, to provide wives for their sons (and, presumably, husbands for their daughters).
His parents are less than happy with his choice, given that this girl has a pair of strikes against her. She is not from Samson’s village. And she is not from Samson’s people. Samson is a Jew. She is a Philistine. In other words, she is “one of them”….not “one of us.” So they say: “Can’t you find anybody local?” To which he replies: “I want what I want. Go do your fatherly thing.”
So, in the company of his parents, Samson heads for Timnah, where (in the middle of a vineyard) he encounters a young lion (“young” as in athletic….not “young” as in baby). But with his phenomenal strength….and with the Spirit of the Lord….he tears the lion apart. Which is done bare-handed, as one might tear apart a kid (“kid” as in baby goat….not “kid” as in second grade child). Which impresses me to no end. I mean, my grandmother used to kill chickens for Sunday dinner, but never a lion. I have never known anybody who killed a lion. Even my “tough as nails” Aunt Emma never killed a lion. Although she could have.
Killing a lion is an important mythic image. Hercules killed one….also bare-handed. As did Polydamas….in imitation of Hercules. And in I Samuel 17:36, the youthful David tells Saul that he can go one-on-one with Goliath because, on previous occasions, he has already killed lions….and bears. But, then, so have the Packers. And in II Samuel 23:20, one of David’s men (Benaiah, by name) killed a lion….in a pit….in the snow. Later we read that Benaiah also killed an Egyptian (“a handsome Egyptian,” the Bible adds). Suffice it to say, lion-killing is an act that is as mythic as it is expedient. Anybody who’s anybody has done it. Some, more than once.
At any rate, Samson kills the lion….leaves the lion….and sometime later (while traveling down the same road) comes upon the lion’s carcass. But now he finds that a swarm of bees has taken up residence there. For in barren areas, where hollow trees are not available in abundance, wild bees often establish colonies in animal carcasses. Apparently, a dried out old hide provides a perfect home.
So with the lion’s carcass now rich in honey, Samson scoops out a handful and goes merrily on his way. The story gives no clue as to how he fights off the bees. But, as readers, we can’t have everything. Later, he shares some of the honey with his parents, who enjoy it every bit as much as he does. But he doesn’t reveal its origin, given that their tastes may be just a bit more squeamish than his.
Cut now to the wedding. Apparently somebody (presumably, Samson’s father) is successful in getting this sweet young Philistine from Timnah-town to be Samson’s bride. So there is a celebration….a party….a “drinking bout” (if you want to translate the Hebrew precisely)….a seven-day cocktail party….with the actual ceremony taking place at the close of the seventh day. That way, if somebody doesn’t go through with the nuptials, you won’t have spoiled a good reception. In those days, one of the amusements in the course of a wedding feast has the groom testing his fellows with a riddle. Which customarily includes a wager or two. In this case, the wager involves some very expensive clothing (Armani suits….Ellen Tracy dresses…. that sort of stuff).
And this is the riddle that Samson presents:
Out of the eater came something to eat.
Out of the strong came something sweet.
With the answer being “honey in the lion.” Except that nobody gets the riddle. At least nobody gets it until the bride reveals it. But that’s another story, and not necessarily a pretty one….given that it kills the wedding, along with 30 of the wedding guests. So let’s not go there, either. Let’s stick with the riddle. Or, to be more precise, let’s stick with its answer: “honey in the lion.”
* * * * *
Which will preach, given its suggestion that Samson was able to find nourishment for living (i.e. honey) in something that threatened to take life from him (i.e. the lion). The lion was, by nature, an eater. But out of his carcass came something to eat. Or, to put it another way, Samson returned to find “a certain sweetness” in the midst of something that could very well have been his destruction.
“Blessed are they (says Ellsworth Kalas) who learn that there is honey in the lion.” Which is sometimes hard to find. Although lions are not hard to find. In part, because they tend to find us. And by now you have figured out that I am not talking about four-legged lions…. with manes and tails….but other kinds of lions, equally fierce and more than capable (in their own way) of eating us alive or maiming us for life.
Life is not without its jungles….which can be anywhere, can’t they? And life is not without its predators….who can be anybody, can’t they? And sometimes the “devouring” is an inside job…. as in the question: “What’s eating you, my friend?” Having lived in city and suburb, I have seen people eaten in both places. Having worked among poor and rich, I have seen people eaten in both circumstances. Whether it be war and violence….depression and disillusionment….poverty and peer pressure….or sickness and bereavement….no one walks the road of life without encountering some hungry lions.
Who will pounce. And maim. And cripple. For that is the nature of lions. That is what they do. If they don’t take your life, they will take their toll. Do not, even for a minute, make light of that. For after meeting them, you will never be the same. Some people go through a crisis and say: “I’ve got to get back to my old self.” But that’s a fruitless quest. You will never get back to your “old self.” For the crisis has taken your “old self” with it. You’ll never get it back. Ever.
But that doesn’t mean that you can’t come out with something. For one of the strangest, yet most sublime facts of human existence, is that something beneficial can always be harvested from life’s most devastating experiences.
When previously-divorced people come to me to be married, I do not turn my back on them because of past failures. Some denominations would make me do so. And a literal interpretation of at least one passage in the Bible would have me do so. But I do not. Instead, I ask them (in the course of talking about their divorce) what they learned about themselves while going through it. And I listen carefully to their answer. For I have little interest in what the other person did, compared to what they, themselves, discovered. For the lessons learned, if internalized, may turn out to be “honey in the lion.”
History, too, offers us story after story in illustration of my point….people who found something to eat in the thing that was eating them. And I could sprinkle our final few minutes with several such accounts. But unless you have survived the lion yourself (to the point of finding a subsequent cache of honey)….or unless you can remember some stunning setback that looked like the defeat of all your dreams (but eventually proved to be the beginning of some turning or triumph)…..you’ll probably just write me off and go on feeling bitter rather than better, and victim rather than victor.
But I’ve got to believe that many of you have made a return trip down the old road where the lion lay (and may still lie)….and have taken your own fistful of honey from his gut, however many years may have passed in the meantime. The key is that you’ve got to go back down that road. Then, you’ve got to look for the honey and, upon finding it, you’ve got to reach for the honey….because neither God nor anyone else is going to hand it to you, free for the asking.
Let me be personal. From time to time, I share an updating word, relative to the fiercest lion I have ever met….or ever hope to meet….in my earthly life. I am talking about the death of my son, Bill, by his own hand, some 52 months ago. For there were times when I felt that lion might very well destroy me, too. In the wake of that hour, I lost my “old self” and have never gotten it back. Nor do I expect to.
Shortly after Bill died, Kris and I made an appointment to see someone Bill had seen….several times….relative to his medication. And I would less than honest if I told you that our meeting went well. It didn’t….for a lot of reasons (which I won’t go into here). Just leave it that we didn’t connect on any level….and that no comfort was taken (quite apart from the question of whether any comfort was given).
But she said something I have never forgotten….in part, because it made me incredibly angry at the time. Said she: “You probably can’t see this now….and, therefore, can’t believe it now….but there will come a day when you will actually view Bill’s death as a gift.”
I suspect she was making reference to things I might learn (personally) that I would eventually put into practice (professionally). But I didn’t want to hear that then. And I didn’t need to hear that then. And I didn’t like being told that then. For I was not ready to have a philosophic discussion about the pastoral benefits of my loss. I was still in what Peter Gomes called my “baying at the moon” stage. I was bleeding. And I was looking for someone to do mop up duty….not perform needle-and-thread stitchery.
Besides, her word “gift” was….and still is….much too strong. Bill’s death didn’t feel like a “present” then. And it doesn’t feel like a “present” now. But she was not entirely off track. For there have been small tastes of honey in that lion, so as to make life’s bread edible….not so much my own bread, but other people’s.
Since that day, I have buried eight suicides. I have lectured twice on suicide. I have preached three times on my own personal experience with suicide. And I will do a workshop in November for professional grief therapists (who deal with suicide as a part of their daily fare). I do not seek out such opportunities. But neither do I turn them down. Every time I do one, it is like taking a can opener to the heart. But each time that wound is opened, something of a cleansing takes place. So whether I am doing any earthly good for anybody else, I suppose (in some strangely self-centered way) I am doing good for me.
But, here and there, it does appear that I am doing a bit of good for somebody else….including a lot people I have never seen. Someone reads one of my sermons and sends me a note. Someone else hears one of my tapes and passes it to a friend who needs it more than they do. And then there’s this.
In late September, Kris and I are going to Scotland for a few days. On one of those days, I am scheduled to play golf and have dinner with a friend of a friend….an old Scot named Alistair. Alistair is a doctor….a retired doctor….a recently widowed doctor….who is a man of keen intellect and deep compassion, but possessed of little (if any) religious faith. In fact, when he heard I was coming….and that we would be playing and dining together….he wrote my friend and said: “I’d love to meet Bill and his wife, but does he know that I am an atheist?”
My friend wrote him back, telling them that I knew and that I would be “okay with it.” But just to give him a feel for me and my nature, my friend sent Alistair a couple of my sermons….two of the “Bill sermons.” In response to which, my friend received this note:
Dear Brent,
Thank you for your letter of 4th April. I am really ashamed of this very late acknowledgement. My only excuse is apathy and lack of concentration. However, I am beginning to feel better, both physically and mentally, with the realization that age is catching up with me fast.
I wasn’t aware of conveying some of my misery in my last letter. Thank you for your insight and understanding. And thank you for sending me Bill Ritter’s sermons and thoughts following the death of Bill Jr. I can only describe both as brilliant, deeply touching, and must confess to shedding some tears. I have read and reread them many times and shall continue to do so. I have also shared most of his all-embracing thoughts. Never could I have clarified, or rather sorted out, so many thoughts and conflicts so adroitly. And this has helped me to see things more in perspective.
I look forward to meeting Bill and Kris.
I look forward to meeting him, too. I will enjoy the golf. And I will enjoy the meal that follows. I suspect that dinner will be on him, given his claim that he has already found food in my words. What kind of food? Darned if I know. But reading between his lines….or lions….I suppose it could be honey.
Note: I am indebted to my United Methodist colleague J. Ellsworth Kalas for his suggestion of the Judges 14 text and the “honey in the lion” image. You can find his treatment of the story (which differs from mine) in his most recent book, Old Testament Stories from the Backside. Peter Gomes’ image of “baying at the moon” can be found in his writings on suffering in The Good Book. As to Mickey Mouse’s Joke Book, I suspect it is out of print. You could borrow my copy. But I am planning on mailing it to my daughter, Julie, for her 24th birthday.
