Expanding Our Sight
Have you ever played a game with a young, creative child who seems to make up the rules as you go along? From the outset, you know that the point of this game is not to win but to accompany the child in their imaginative endeavors, so it does not bother you all that much when, after achieving the goal first articulated by your playmate, you learn that the initial objective was not actually the real objective. “No, not like that,” the creator of the game informs you. “You have to do it this way.”
When we encounter a similar situation in adult life, the results are not so charming. A boss who changes the objectives in the middle of the project leaves us feeling undermined. A mentor who gatekeeps important information instead of allowing us to develop at our own pace inhibits our love of learning. A partner or spouse who invents new expectations s after months or years together can destroy the sense of mutuality and trust upon which our relationship is built.
Lately, the world has felt a little like that—like we are all in the middle of a dangerous game with rules and objectives that keep changing unexpectedly. Things that have felt normal and good—like a preference for peace—no longer seem universally important. Widely held principles—like the fundamental unacceptability of political violence—are being questioned. Shared hopes and dreams—like the desire for widespread prosperity and freedom—are being rejected.
I have found it more difficult to stay engaged in public life because the boundaries for our participation in civic conversation and the framework within which our common life is carried out have been shifting so significantly. In my personal life, I find myself questioning some of the assumptions I have always held about human nature and the best ways to achieve good and godly outcomes in society. What can we do to redefine what it means to be faithful to God and to each other in such a divisive and hostile time?
This week, the Rector’s Bible Study is examining a curious passage of scripture that suggests a surprising answer. In the Sunday lectionary, we never read from 2 Kings 6, but the story of Elisha’s encounter with the Syrian army is worth a careful read.
The story begins with an anxious, frustrated, and paranoid king. While at war with the king of Israel, the king of Syria orders his troops to advance upon a particular location only to have the Israelite king order his troops to go in the opposite direction. As soon as the Syrian ruler gives an order, his Israelite counterpart responds as if he is able to anticipate his enemy’s every move.
The Syrian king is convinced that there is a traitor among his senior advisors, and he demands to know who among them is working for the nation of Israel. As is often the case, the king depends on one of his servants to tell him the truth: “None, my lord, O king; but Elisha, the prophet who is in Israel, tells the king of Israel the words that you speak in your bedroom.” Although the Bible does not explain how, we learn that the prophet is able to listen in on even the most private conversations held by the king of Syria.
In an instant, the king’s anger focuses on the Israelite man of God. He orders a “great army” of soldiers, horses, and chariots to march upon Elisha’s home and rid the king of this meddlesome prophet. The thought of a thunderous military outfit descending upon the simple dwelling of a single prophet leaves the reader with a clear sense of the Syrian king’s instability, but it takes a faithful eye to see through the powerful but empty gesture.
Early the next morning, the servant of the prophet went outside and saw that they were surrounded by the enemy soldiers. He rushed inside and cried out to Elisha, “Alas, my lord! What shall we do?” But the prophet was not bothered. “Do not fear,” he said to his servant, “for those who are with us are more numerous than those who are with them.” One does not need an advanced degree in mathematics to determine that the two individuals inside the house were far outnumbered by the massive army outside, but the prophet was able to see something that, at that point, no one else in the story could see.
Then, the prophet prayed, “O Lord, please open [my servant’s] eyes that he may see.” When God granted the servant that spiritual eyesight, his eyes were opened, and he was able to see that the area around the prophet’s house was full of horses and chariots of fire. Though invisible to ordinary humans, the Lord’s army stood ready to rush in and defend the prophet. The servant had no idea that the heavenly host was all around, and now he understood why the prophet had not been provoked by the Syrian king’s threat of violence.
I wonder how different my own reactive anxiety would be if, when I felt threatened, my eyes were opened to the countless manifestations of divine aid that surround me in every moment. Our guardian angels do not always keep us from physical harm, but the power of God to shelter us from this life into the next will not fail. That is the promise of Jesus’ death and resurrection—God’s sure and certain victory over all that threatens us. If I knew fully the power of that promise—if I were conscious of the proximity and certainty of God’s defense—I bet my response to the very real threats that I come up against would be different. What about you?
Important to us in this moment, however, the story of Elisha and the army that seeks him does not end with violence. After asking God to open the eyes of his servant, the prophet asks God to blind those who seek to do him harm. Unable to see, the powerless soldiers are effectively at Elisha’s mercy, and the prophet decides to lead them all the way to Samaria, where they are confronted by Israel’s king.
“Shall I strike them down, my father?” the king asks, deferring to the prophet’s authority in this situation. “No,” the prophet replies, “you shall not strike them down…[Instead,] set bread and water before them, that they may eat and drink and return to their master.” Rather than kill the captives, Elisha orders that they be cared for according to the rules governing prisoners of war, but the king goes further. Invited by the prophet’s gesture to recognize the humanity of the enemy soldiers, the king of Israel prepared for them a great feast, and, only after they had eaten and drunk, did they return home. The narrator lets us know that this lavish and unexpected gesture had lasting consequences: “And the Syrians did not come again on raids into the land of Israel.”
Even when the rules around us are changing and it feels like the old ways of interacting with our opponents have all been thrown out the window, the fundamental truth of the God-imaged humanity of all people does not change. We may be tempted to stop acknowledging the humanity—the intrinsic God-given goodness—of those whose intentions seem designed to destroy everything we care about, but that reactiveness is often a reflection of our own short-sightedness.
If we could see what God sees about others and about ourselves and about the future that is ours together, we would not feel threatened so deeply. If our eyes were opened to the innumerable sources of divine protection and support that are all around us, we might even respond with the confidence and grace of Elisha—a true kindness that inspires kindness in others. In a world in which generosity gets overshadowed by protectionism, we need to know the security that God has already given us so that we can share that sense of security with others—even with those who come to threaten us. That is what it means to belong to God. That is what life looks like when we follow Jesus.
Yours faithfully,
Evan D. Garner
