September 20, 2009 Sermon

Our Pilgrim Coats: Looking to Behold - (I Samuel 1 & 2 (selected verses; Luke 24: 13-16; 28-31)

Rev. Sally Harris

Silence every voice in us except your own, O God of mystery and of love. Into that silence, O God remind us that we are companions on the journey seeking sanctuary and being sanctuary in a broken world. Amen

Such a surprise I had when I found these verses in I Samuel. We are familiar with the song of Hannah as we hear it every Advent on the lips of Mary, the mother of Jesus in the words of the Magnificant. Every three years the lectionary brings forward the call of the child Samuel to confront the way things are and to begin something new… but squeezed between these verses is the yearly ritual of a mother making a coat and the annual pilgrimage of her bringing this coat to her child. As I said last week I have become intrigued by the creation of pilgrim coats – a cloak that is both a passport and a prayer. A garment that bears outward witness to an internal spiritual journey. I wonder what Hannah might say about coats and journeys. What might she say if we asked her…

Thank you for finding me… my story is so small in the scheme of things. Yet it is my story. A story of loss and redemption, of fear and hope, of shame and strength. A written story like you have in your sacred scriptures cannot describe the depth or dimension of anyone’s life or journey – it only gathers a glimpse – I suppose so you can find your story in it. But let me tell you just a bit of my life’s journey. Most of my life was set within the framework of pilgrimages to the temple – as a child and then as a wife. Year after year we journeyed about 10 miles from the hill country of Ephraim to the temple at Shiloh. Many pilgrimages were made to this house of God. Many prayers were offered, many tears were shed. Year after year my husband, Elkanah, his other wife, Peninnah and myself would travel this distance to worship our God and to offer sacrifices. They were uncomfortable journeys; Peninnah would often flaunt her fertility in front of me, as if God loved her more. That was not my theology but I could not explain that to her or to my husband. Even the teller of my tale describes it as if I was refusing to eat because I had no children – how little we know of each other’s lives.

My husband would try and reassure me – “Hannah, why are you crying? Why won’t you eat? Why are you always sad? Don’t I mean more to you than ten sons?” I could not explain what dwelt deep within me. Yes I longed to have children but that was not my deep source of sadness. I knew I was loved by God and by my husband. My life was full. I loved the pilgrimages. I loved what I saw along the way. The beauty of the hills of Ephraim, the flaming orange of the setting sun that colored the hills in a spectrum of red highlights; the white sunlight of morning, silvering the leaves of the olive trees – there was a gentle peace in the nature of things. It was a long walking meditation and I so felt the presence of the divine. This deepened each year. Each year I saw something new in the pebbles on the roadside or in the blades of grass on the hillsides. Each year the divine seemed more presence in my walk, in my pilgrimage. I enjoyed the other pilgrims as we all journeyed to the temple. We would share bread and news. Sometimes we would share our ideas, a new pattern for a cloak, a new design to add. It seemed each year I collected a new picture and a new challenge on how and where to sew that drawing or design.

The peaceful pilgrimage would always end when we reached the temple. I knew it was suppose to house the God of hosts but I lost touch at the tabernacle. I knew it was suppose to be God’s dwelling place but a sadness would well up within me because I could no longer feel the peace. The temple was raucous and rude; something was amiss there. I could not put my finger on it. I just felt it in the bones of my being. One time after we had finished our meal in the house of God at Shiloh, I got up from the table. I could not sit there anymore; I was so deeply distressed in this place. How do you describe the ache in one’s soul when what you believe hits a wall with the reality in front of you? I cried bitterly to God and prayed asking God to look at me and see me and see my trouble and remember me. And then I made a solemn promise that if God gave me a son I promised to dedicate him to God for his whole life and the sign would be that he would never cut his hair. I promised that this child would change this place back into a sanctuary for God. I prayed many things – I poured out my soul and I did not know that Eli the priest was watching me from the doorpost of the sanctuary. He later told he saw my lips move but did not hear a sound and so he thought me drunk and told me to sober up and stop drinking. I looked at this priest and said, “I am not drunk, sir. I am desperate and I have been praying and pouring out my troubles to God. Don’t think I am a worthless woman. I have been praying like this because I am so miserable.” And then this dear man reached out in a gentle gesture and said, “Go in peace and may the God of Israel give you what you have asked.” “May you always think kindly of me,” I said to this true person of faith. And suddenly my heart was lifted. I knew I had offered all I could to all the God I knew. I released my burden and I beheld God beside me. I went and ate and was no longer sad. I realized that there is no magic step there is only our pure desire to know God, that makes things new. What matters is that we take a step toward God. I had given my angst over to the One who holds all things and I knew I was called to be faithful to this One in spite of what I saw and felt. My work was to make sure that my desire was for a godly change even in a seemingly impossible situation.

It was three years before I made that pilgrimage again. Indeed I bore a son and named him Samuel, which means ‘God has heard.’ Samuel and I took that pilgrimage together – our only one together. I knew as we walked that journey together that he would make the temple true again. That in my personal and silent cry the Holy One had heard me. And in time, I knew all would be set right again. I bore gifts to the gift-giver, the life-giver, and the hope- giver. I brought a bull, a bushel of flour and a bag of wine. And I brought my child to Eli. “Excuse sir,” I said, “Do you remember me? I am the woman you saw standing here, praying to God. I asked God for this child; I received what I asked for. So I am dedicating him to God. As long as he lives, he will belong to God.

And we worshipped together and my heart sang: “My soul is filled with joy in my Redeemer, for God has lifted me and set me high. There is no Holy One, no Rock like our God, who answered my request, who heard my cry. O God, you set the earth on sure foundations, help for your saints is found in you alone. Those who oppose your truth will fall in judgment, but you will strengthen your anointed one.” (see Voice United # 878)

God even strengthen me. I took the designs and patterns of all my previous pilgrimages and every year I made for Samuel a pilgrim coat. Every year I would say to him. “Samuel, born of me but dedicated to God, this is your pilgrim coat – look and behold all that is within and without so that you may be ready for what God may ask of you.” And every year until his death, Eli would say to Elkanah and me, “May God raise up for you descendants from this woman to replace the one she dedicated to God.”

And for the rest of my life I felt the care of God, in those that surrounded me with love and in the heart of me where God dwelt in the sanctuary of my being. And Samuel, he dwelt near the light of God, growing into the leader God intended. May it be so within us. Amen

[resource: David and Nancy Brinkerhoff]



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