Sermon — January 17, 2021
The Rev. Greg Johnston
I think young Samuel would have made a good Episcopalian. He’s always ready. He’s always there to help. When he hears the call, he says, “Here I am!” He’s exactly the kind of person you want on your Vestry.
Like many characters in the Bible, Samuel had had something of a miraculous birth; and his mother promised God that, in exchange for the gift of a child, she would make sure that Samuel’s life was dedicated to God. So when he was a young boy, he went up to the temple at Shiloh to serve under the priest Eli. Samuel’s clearly learned how to be a good member of a religious community. Even in the night, he’s bubbling with energy and activity. He hears someone calling his name, and assumes it must be Eli; there’s no one else around. Maybe a lamp needs to be trimmed. Maybe a candle needs to be lit. Maybe someone needs to form a committee! So he runs up to his priest, ready to help: “Here I am! You called me.” He springs into action like a faithful member of any small church today.
But Eli says: Wasn’t me. You must have been dreaming. Go back to sleep.
And so he does, but he hears the voice again, and again he’s ready for action. “Here I am! You called me.”
And again, Eli says: No. It wasn’t me. Go back to sleep.
And then a third time—because in every human story, there must be three times—a third time Samuel hears a voice calling his name, and this time he’s probably hardly even fallen asleep, but he goes back to his seemingly-forgetful guardian and, with what I can only imagine is a thin layer of politeness spread over increasing frustration and confusion, he deploys his favorite phrase: “Here I am! …You called me.”
And Samuel still hasn’t realized what’s going on, because “the word of the Lord had not yet been revealed to him.” (1 Sam. 3:7) But Eli has. So Eli says to him, “Go lie down. If you’re called again, say, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.’” (1 Sam. 3:9)
And he does. And oh, what a difference it makes. All along, he’s been hearing his name being called and immediately jumping into action. Samuel assumes that he knows what’s going on. He assumes that he knows what needs to be done. He hears a voice speaking out of the Ark of the Covenant itself, and he leaps into action, ready to be busy somewhere else with important temple business.
But now he stops, and actually answers the call. “Samuel! Samuel!” the voice cries out. “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” (1 Sam. 3:10) And the patient voice of God finally gets to have its say.
In Hebrew, God uses nearly the same phrase that Samuel’s been relying on all along. Samuel says over and over again, Hineni, Hineni, Hineni—“Here I am; Here I am; Here I am.” What do you want me to do? And God turns it around on him: Hine anoki–“Here I am, doing such a thing in Israel that’ll make your ears tingle.” (1 Sam. 3:11)
And Samuel finally hears the word of the Lord.
It’s not until Samuel stops trying to respond and really listens that he understands what’s going on. Perhaps even more importantly, it’s not until Samuel stops trying to do something for God that he learns what God is going to do through him. The moment he gives up his preconceptions about what it means to serve in the temple of God is the moment he learns what it really means to become a servant of God. He’s not meant to help Eli with little tasks around the church forever. He’s been set aside for something more.
We see that same moment of transition in a second call story this morning, in the call of Nathanael to be one of the first followers of Jesus. Samuel’s assumptions about what it means to serve God are industrious and helpful, even if they distract him from what God is really trying to say. Nathanael, on the other hand, is kind of a jerk.
“We’ve found the Messiah!” Philip tells his friend. And Nathanael skeptically replies, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” (John 1:45) Rude. Nathanael’s just recycling a city-dweller’s disdain for a small-town boy; this is what John’s trying to tell us when he says he comes from Bethsaida, a bigger city down the road from Nazareth.
But his friend Philip insists. “Come and see.” (John 1:47) And Nathanael does. The results are an exaggerated comedy. Jesus offers a casual compliment—“Here’s an good honest Israelite, if I’ve ever seen one”—and Nathanael is shocked. “Where do you know me from?” He asks. “I saw you over there under the fig tree, before Philip called you.” (Before, in other words, you were just being rude.) And Nathanael, inexplicably, loses his mind: “Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel!” (John 1:49)
I’ll admit that I was baffled as to what was going on in this story. What on earth is going on to transform Nathanael’s casual skepticism into such an incredible statement of faith, so early on in Jesus’ ministry? (This is only chapter one of the Gospel of John!) I consulted my various study bibles and commentaries, finding nothing satisfying, and eventually I ended up deep in the commentary written by Raymond Brown, an absolute prince among 20th-century Biblical scholars and the expert on the Gospel of John. He surveys a number of wild theories about where the fig tree was and what it means and even what Nathanael was doing under it that was so remarkable, and concludes simply: “We are far from exhausting the suggestions, all of which are pure speculation.”[1]
As dumbfounding as Nathanael’s faith may be to the modern scholar, though, I think Samuel’s story helps make it clear. Why was Nathanael so skeptical about Jesus? Because, like the young Samuel at the beginning of that fateful night, he “did not yet know the Lord, and the word of the Lord had not yet been revealed to him.” (1 Sam. 3:7)
It’s not that Jesus said anything particularly profound. It’s not that he saw deep into Nathanael’s heart and told him his deepest secret. Jesus does do that other times, and John tells the story well. In this moment, though, it’s nothing that Jesus is speaking about that transforms Nathanael’s life. It’s just that Jesus is speaking. And Nathanael is listening.
I don’t know about you, but I find myself acting like Samuel and Nathanael before their respective enlightenments all the time. I hear someone calling to me, and before they’ve even gotten to speak I’m already formulating a response, making a plan; coming up with five reasons it will never work or lacing up my shoes to go do what I think they need. And that’s at my best, when I’m trying to be helpful. At my worst, when I’m tired or angry, I’m more likely to pull a Nathanael and dismiss them right away. (“Can anything good come out of his mouth?”)
This happens in our prayer lives, too. We’re too busy being human doings to be human beings. We’re too busy talking to God to listen to what God’s trying to say. And maybe—just maybe—sometimes our preconceptions close off an opportunity for a deeper conversation with God. (“Can anything good come out of Leviticus?”)
But sometimes, in a moment of grace, we stop. We listen. We hear each other’s voices—not filtered through our own thoughts and preoccupations and prejudices—but as they are. We hear God’s voice calling to us, and we listen, and something breaks through, and transforms us. In these moments of epiphany we catch a glimpse of truth shining through all the confusion of our lives.
And at our best—at our very best—we’re no longer Samuel and Nathanael but Eli and Philip, no longer doers and doubters suddenly turned into listeners, but listeners transformed into bearers of good news. When we’ve listened long enough for the word of God, we learn to find its signal in the noise of the world, and we gain an incredible power to tell others how to find it as well. We gain the wisdom to say to a friend, “Go, lie down. If you are called again, say, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.’” (1 Sam. 3:9) We gain the courage to say to another person: “Come and see.” (John 1:46)
Amen.
[1] Raymond, E. Brown, The Gospel According to John I-XII, The Anchor Yale Bible. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974), 83.