The Song of the Bow ...

David intoned this lamentation over Saul and his son Jonathan. (He ordered that The Song of the Bow be taught to the people of Judah; it is written in the Book of Jashar.) He said:

Your glory, O Israel, lies slain upon your high places!
How the mighty have fallen!
Tell it not in Gath,
proclaim it not in the streets of Ashkelon;
or the daughters of the Philistines will rejoice,
the daughters of the uncircumcised will exult.

You mountains of Gilboa,
let there be no dew or rain upon you,
nor bounteous fields!
For there the shield of the mighty was defiled,
the shield of Saul, anointed with oil no more.

From the blood of the slain,
from the fat of the mighty,
the bow of Jonathan did not turn back,
nor the sword of Saul return empty.

Saul and Jonathan, beloved and lovely!
In life and in death they were not divided;
they were swifter than eagles,
they were stronger than lions.

O daughters of Israel, weep over Saul.
2 Samuel 1:17-24 – NRSV

David excelled at poetry and singing before he became king. So it is only natural that at a time of sorrow that he would turn to his strengths to express the depth of his feelings. Although there is a certain amount of irony in this lament, I don’t believe that such was David’s intent.

David remembers the good, the strength in these two men. He cannot have forgotten the painful politics, the random raids, the chases through the desert wilderness, or the sound of Saul’s spear shaft singing past his ear. Yet David does not sing about the famous spear of Saul. He celebrates his fonder memories: the mighty warrior, the relentless foe, their speed and strength in battle. Remembering the loss of Saul and Jonathan brings to mind the true enemies of God’s people, not the squabbles between them.

How will your survivors remember you? What images will come to mind when your spouse, your children, the boys, or your co-workers remember you? What will be the weapons, the tools, the instruments that they remember in your hands? Just as it is too late to speak the unspoken to someone who has died, it is too late to change the image that our survivors have of us, even in that last eulogy.

Think about it.

Grace and peace,

Ron

Grandma's kitchen table

Is there a history of food in your family? There are a lot of stories about food in mine: rituals for what food is to be eaten at which holiday, carefully researched histories of which aunt it was who originated a favorite family recipe, tales about how certain individuals cooked or learned to cook, and legends about the culinary artistry of certain family members. Many of these stories in the Bruner family have as their main character my paternal grandmother. These stories remain fresh in my memory even though the last time I ate at my grandmother’s table was in 1964, just months before she died.

When Grandma came home from church in Bowie, Texas, the screen door would scree open, and this six foot tall, broad-shouldered woman would enter. Without bending to touch them, she would kick off her low-heeled shoes under the end of the sofa, and quietly cross the hardwood floors in stocking feet. Moving to the kitchen, she would cross in front of Granddad, who had been firmly ensconced in his chair with his newspaper and Winstons all morning long. She would take off her pillbox hat en route, Bible still firmly pinned beneath one elbow; Grandma never went to worship without a hat on her head – it was not to be done. Putting away the hat and Bible in the kitchen, she would begin work on lunch.

There was something spiritual about Grandma’s cooking. It seemed that she imitated the divine in her ability to make a feast for a large family out of practically nothing. And surely what she cooked was so heavenly that even the angels must have been tempted to find some excuse to drop in without notice. Although she had a very cautious view of manifestations of the Holy Spirit, surely some of her recipes must have been inspired: she very rarely resorted to any written notes. Usually she just quietly worked: chopping, sifting, mixing, kneading, folding, straining, stirring, crimping, seasoning, tasting. She would measure when she baked or canned, but the rest was done by sight, smell, texture, and taste. Meanwhile, as she continued her work, this amazing symphony of smells would emerge from her kitchen, making the very idea of a dinner bell absurdly redundant. People would just intuitively migrate to the kitchen, like the hopeful chosen divinely called to the land of promise and plenty. There was this now, and not yet, about the whole experience; you could smell it, and you could see some of it, you just hoped that the world wouldn’t end before you got a chance to eat it.

Finally, we were allowed to sit at the table. Grandma brought coffee to the table for Granddad, coffee so hot that Granddad always had to pour some into a saucer to sip before he could drink from the cup. Baked ham, potato salad, fresh-snapped black-eyed peas, fresh vegetables, peach preserves on hot biscuits, and banana pudding. Heaven at the kitchen table.

I’ve had parts of this meal since: Ann has figured out the black-eyed peas and the potato salad. But no one can quite get the banana pudding, or the peach preserves, or the chow-chow to match up with my memories. I can relish recalling past pleasures of the table, and tastes of heaven in the present, but the experience of sitting at my grandmother’s table is not possible any more. Still, I live in hope. Hope that one day I will once again sit at a heavenly table with her and enjoy the quiet and faithful comfort of her presence. And perhaps she won’t even have to cook. God can cook after all. The family of faith has its cooking stories, too. It’s true. Read this:

When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread. Jesus said to them, "Bring some of the fish that you have just caught." So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them; and though there were so many, the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, "Come and have breakfast." Now none of the disciples dared to ask him, "Who are you?" because they knew it was the Lord. Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish. This was now the third time that Jesus appeared to the disciples after he was raised from the dead.
John 21:9-14 - NRSV

I can just imagine how good this meal tasted to this hungry crew: hot, tasty, filling. Since everything Jesus did was well done, I have to believe that this meal was refreshing, delicious, and satisfying.

But one of these days God will bring us to a table
where we can all be satisfied in a way that is, unbelievable as it is,
beyond even the masterful cooking skills of my dear grandmother.
We can have deservedly fond memories of the table of the past,
and we really need to celebrate our time together at the table today,
but, oh, what a day is coming! What a banquet is being prepared!
I think that I can smell dinner cooking already . . .

Say grace, and enjoy peace at his table,
In hopes of the table to come,

Ron