From Jim McGuiggan... Who would I die for? And so what?

Who would I die for? And so what?

I want to say that human love is not only a gift from God but that it carries within it the promise of the future because it tells us something about the heart of God. And those who have the heart of the Dragonslayer can't bear to see people out there lost and alone. Moses couldn't bear to think that Israel would die even though he and his family would live on (see Exodus 32:30-32). And there was Paul who said he would gladly be cut off from the Christ if he thought it would save some of his own people (see Romans 9:2-3).

The love of David for Jonathan, son of Saul, is well known to Bible readers, but David's deep feeling for Saul is not given the notice it calls for. The poet, Robert Browning, helps redress the balance. Using the biblical text and his own depth of insight he gives us a lesson we need to hear again and again. The existence, depth and selflessness of human love at its best say something the whole creation needs to hear because it reflects the heart of the one ransoming Christ.

As Browning imagines it, Saul sent for David and he's met by Abner who tells him the king is in a dreadful state and that he and the men haven't eaten a bite since he went into his tent. Nor would they eat or drink until David came back out to say the king was alive and well. He has been three days in the black tent in the middle of the camp—in complete silence. The troops know a struggle is going on between Saul and the Spirit of God.

David first prays and then enters, creeping in on his knees, praying as he goes, into the great darkness. He speaks into that darkness, "I'm David, your servant." Not a word or a sound, only deep darkness. Then his eyes make out something even darker, an upright—the center beam of the tent and then, blackest of all, he makes out the huge figure of Saul. A beam of sunlight suddenly gives some light and David sees him there, propped up against the central beam with his arms draped over the cross beam—like one crucified, covered in sweat, head drooping, like a king-serpent, cut off from his own kind while he's waiting for a transformation.

David begins to play the kind of music he plays for his sheep—the kind that calms them; then music that charms the birds and other animals, even crickets. Then he played happy music, the kind they play at harvest when friends enjoy one another and expand each others hearts and then came the kind of music they play as they bear a man to his grave. The kind that goes along with the praise they proclaim as they walk saying, "the land has none left such as he on the bier". Then there was wedding music and music that men do hard work by when they have to get their shoulders under huge stones when building. And more, there was the praise music as when men go to worship, led by the Levitical singers,

                                    up to the altar in glory enthroned. But I stopped here:
                                    for here in the darkness Saul groaned.

For a moment David's silent, listening, then the tent shakes "for mighty Saul shuddered", but after that only his head moved. David begins to play again, speaking of the joys of human life, the rock-climbing, swimming, bear-hunting. He sings of love of family and the joys of it, the love of boyhood friends and then of the king's coming to glory and being monarch of the nation. And at that point, carried away by the beauty and truth of it all, and anxious for Saul to drink it in and end his night, he calls out the king's name—Saul! and then stopped. The whole tent is brighter with the singing but the figure in the center is like a dark mountain that's the last thing in the valley to be hit by the rising sun's light. But not so dark that David can't make out the scars the king bears, scars he received in the nation's defence. Saul gives a long shudder, then goes silent. But now he's aware of where and who he is. He has heard all the words and in great sadness:

                                    He said, "It is good;" still he drinks not:
                                    he lets me praise life,
                                    Gives assent, yet would die for his own part.

David understands that the king knows something he doesn't know. All David has sung, while it's true, and lovely and joyous—it's not enough. There's got to be more. Life's joys aren't enough to take the sting out of living much less out of dying.

He imagines himself lying in a little rock fissure while he's out tending his sheep. The rocks on each side hem in his view of the sky and narrow it down to only a sliver while high above him flies an eagle. What can he see? From that height, what can he see? Much more than David. He as a shepherd boy knows so little of life, and there's so much more so with that in mind he takes up his harp and begins to sing again.

He tells the king he's right not to put too much stock in life as it is on the physical level; "it's good" but it's not enough, and people grow tired of it and feel empty. But this life and the praise the king will get in future years from a grateful nation is God-given! God gave it!

And as he sings, Saul moves, fixes his hair, adjusts his turban, wipes off the sweat with his robe, fixes his tunic and stands erect; looking now like the old Saul "ere error had bent". Then, weak, with his back against the central post he slides down to sit on the ground right close to David, his huge knees hemming the boy in; as the roots of a massive tree hem in a lamb that's sleeping there between them. And then, without a word, slowly, the king lifts a hand and puts it on the boy's head with "kind power" and pushes it back so he can look long in his face; the face of one that cares for him. David's heart is bursting with love for the man.

He hears himself say he would give anything, anything if he could make the king well, if he could give him not just longer life—but new life! If love could do it, love would. The thought of that startled him.

Shocked into silence by the new and daring thought, he reflects on creation, admitting it's more than he can fathom, it far outreaches all his wisdom and exposes all his limitations. And what of God's love and his? He thinks of his own love for Saul, Saul the bent king. Thinks how gladly he'd do whatever it took to make him right. And in this, does the creature do better than the Creator? Does he compare himself with God and out-shine God? It's true that he doesn't have God's power to complete his desire, but does he think he has out-willed God? Does he will Saul good more than God does? Does God have more power but less will than David to do good? No, God out-wills him as well as out-powers him.

Should David then in all the lesser matters trust God and when it comes to what matters most "distrust"? Is it too good to be true? Should he, having seen so much, go "thus far and no farther?" Would God make Saul and not love him? And if he loved him, would he not redeem him? David would! Could God be less than David in loving? Perish the thought! When the truth sinks in, he begins to weep. His own weakness doesn't prevent him from willing Saul's redemption though his weakness depresses him. Still, it suddenly dawns on him, "'tis not what man does which exalts him, but what man would do!" So David's service is perfect; weakness doesn't change his purpose so he asks God to speak this new truth through him.

                                    Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow,
                                    grow poor to enrich,
                                    To fill up his life, starve my own out, I
                                    would—knowing which,
                                    I know that my service is perfect. Oh,
                                    speak through me now!
                                    Would I suffer for him that I love? So
                                    wouldst thou—so wilt thou!

Knowing then that God feels as he feels, David longs for the incarnation of that purpose and power. The boy enters into a new truth about God: that God in is holy love longs for the redemption even of his enemies and will do whatever it takes to give his enemies new life.

                                    'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry
                                    for! my flesh, that I seek
                                    In the Godhead! I seek and find it, O
                                    Saul, it shall be
                                    A Face like my face that receives thee; a
                                    Man like to me,

                                    Thou shalt love and be loved by, for ever;
                                    a Hand like this hand
                                    Shall throw open the gates of new life to
                                    thee! See the Christ stand!

All this came to David with stunning power and since it was so broad a revelation, involving the Creator of all things whose character makes his work of redemption inevitable, David feels that the whole of creation must have been affected.

He stumbles his way home in the night as it gets toward morning and feels there's a host of creatures as well as a universe watching him, like a nation famished for news on how the war is going. As he walks home it's getting close to dawn and creatures, awe-stricken at the revelation, flowers staring in awed astonishment, winds whispering theirs and brooks quietly murmuring in hushed voice—all, joining together in responding to the "new law" (which was really an old law) given to David, "E'en so, it is so!"

I'm saying that human love is a prophet and a seer. Its very being in the world speaks of an ultimate Lover. I'm aware this is no argument that'd satisfy an atheist; I'm not offering arguments now I'm proclaiming Browning's truth that honourable love between us, that would drive us to give all we have, and more if we had it, to get new life for another—even the fallen among us—that love says there's another love that makes sense of our human loves. That enriches them in ways we ourselves are unable to do.

It's a serious question, perhaps without an adequate answer from us: how does it come that such evil exists in this world? But it's a glorious question when we ask: how does it come that such profound love is in the world?

Isn't your love for each other a wondrous thing? Aren't there those you'd cheerfully die for? Give all you have for? Does God love less? Isn't it lovely of God to give us such a lovely thing as holy human love to tell us of his own unfathomable love for us all? And isn't it thrilling to meet people like that who are followers of the Dragonslayer! If you listen hard, really hard in the silence, from a great distance you could almost swear there's the sound of grinding teeth and a dragonish screech of anguish in the still air.

 This piece reflects on Robert Browning's poem, "Saul". It's found in many collections of his work.

©2004 Jim McGuiggan. All materials are free to be copied and used as long as money is not being made.

Many thanks to brother Ed Healy, for allowing me to post from his website, theabidingword.com.