Oak Chapel United Methodist Church

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If the Song of Solomon were a love poem, and nothing more, it would be a great one. In a day like today, when we talk often about sex and seldom about love (and often confuse the two), a real love poem would be a breath of fresh air. But The Song of Solomon is more than a love poem. It's in the Bible because it has religious meaning, because (on one level) it is a poem about young love, but (on another) it is a poem about God's passionate love for his people.

Today's text is the poem's best known part. I have always regarded these words as a scripture for Springtime (with its references to winter past, flowers appearing, and the voice of the turtledove heard in the land). But the lexionary offers it up today, on Labor Day Sunday, at the end of summer, and not at the beginning. I have learned that there is usually a method in the lexionary's madness, a reason why it calls for certain scriptures when it does, but this one escaped me. Until, in a conversation with Lynn Glassbrook this week, she reminded me that the spiritual message of Spring is a message of re-birth, regeneration, new beginnings. And September, she said -- Labor Day, in fact, for most of us -- is when new beginnings occur, when the many activities of our lives start up again: school begins, the church kicks off a new calendar, work weeks begin again in earnest, without vacations, and so forth. So this is the right time, after all, to hear a message of rebirth and renewal -- to be assured of God's love, as we undertake so much, and to be encouraged to come out of ourselves and enjoy a new day with him.

In the poem we have this determined boy, this wonderful young lover, who comes with boundless energy and enthusiasm ("leaping upon the mountains"), to the home of his beloved. He hangs around outside, making a pest of himself, peering over the garden wall and in at the windows and through the latticework, hoping to catch even a glimpse of her. And when he gets her attention, he says, "Come on out. It’s a wonderful Spring day. Everything is new. No more winter. No more rain. Just flowers, and singing, and turtledoves -- good-tasting figs on the trees and fragrant blossoms on the vines. "The world is fresh and new, my love. It's time to begin our lives together. Arise, my fair one, and come away."

We are more comfortable thinking of God as a "Father", or (perhaps) as a "shepherd," than we are thinking of him as a "lover." That may be the straight-laced, English, puritanical side of us. Yet, Charles Wesley, the poet laureate of Methodism (and an Englishman if ever there was one!), is almost embarrassing at times with his sensual poems about God and Jesus. He calls Jesus "lover of my soul," in one of his greatest hymns. On Good Friday he has us sing, like grieving widows and widowers, "My Lord, my Love, is Crucified." In Wesley's hymns Jesus "charms our fears." He is "music in our ears." He romances us.

No relationship is more intimate than the relationship between a man and a woman, and none is so fraught with danger. None requires such commitment, and none is so subject to disappointment. A painfully shy young boy and girl, who liked each other very much but always had trouble thinking of things to talk about, were riding along in the car one night when, after a long period of silence, the boy blurted out, "I love you and I want to marry you." And she said, "O.K." Then there was another very long period of silence. They rode for miles and miles, in fact, and neither said a word. Finally, the girl said, "Can't you think of anything else to say?" And he replied, "I think I've said enough already." Well, he had. He had said a mouthful. He had committed himself in love to another human being. That is a huge gamble. That is to stick one's neck out, to take an enormous risk, make oneself defenseless and vulnerable. It is a scary, wonderful thing to be in love.

Don't you admire the boy in this poem? Making a fool of himself for a girl and not caring a hoot what anyone thinks! Can't you imagine the servants of the house, for example, snickering about him and his antics? Can't you imagine her parents, horrified at this gawky kid, who has suddenly shown up outside their house, and who is jumping around, looking in the widows. He doesn't care, and we love him. He's putting his affection right out there on his shoulder, where it could easily be knocked off. She might ignore him. She might say no to his entreaties. She might make fun of him. Worse, she might say yes, and then change her mind, leaving him devastated. As we get older we get more clever with our emotions; we dole out our love in little bits and pieces, so (if it is not accepted) we will not hurt so much. But we all remember how wonderful it was to be young -- not to know the dangers -- to love and be loved without restraint.

That is how God loves us. He makes a fool of himself for us. He peers in the windows of our hearts, through the lattice work of our defenses, and says, "Come on. It's beautiful out here with me. Come, start fresh. Leave fears behind. Take a chance. Don't always choose the safest road. You can't live behind walls forever. Other suitors are attractive, and they will plead their cases before you. "They'll hug you and kiss you and tell you more lies than cross ties on a railroad or stars in the sky." But I, the lord, am a faithful lover. I keep my promises to my beloved. It is beautiful out here with me, where life is always new. Come and see.

Of course, our response to God's head-over-heels love has been disgraceful.

We have ignored it, rejected it, been unfaithful to it. I looked at this passage from the Song of Solomon, wanting to see it through God's eyes, and thought of Hank Snow singing that sad, old ballad, "If you loved me half as much as I love you, you wouldn't leave me half as much as you do." God could sing those words to us. His love so open, so uncalculated, so enthusiastic. Our response, so guarded, so treacherous, so unfaithful. How could we not fall for such a lover?

The message here is more than simply that God's loves us. The power of this message is in the enthusiasm, the eagerness with which God offers his love. It is almost disgraceful what he is willing to do. He doesn't mind being thought the fool. Even as we bicker about who is the greatest, he takes up a towel and washes our feet. Even as we reject him, grab our inheritance and run, throw it all away, he stands on a lonely road awaiting our return. Doesn't care what the neighbors think. And when we do come back, he acts like an old fool. When we deny him he cries for us. When we crucify him, he prays for us. "What wondrous love is this, O my soul?"

I offer you a lover this morning, a constant lover whose attentions change and beautify the colors of our lives. Not one who loves us tit for tat. (The world has many lovers like that.) But one who loves us period (a rare commodity in this world). Not one who loves us "because of" but one who loves us "in spite" of. All the power and force of the universe urges us to love and be loved by such a one. It is an easy yoke and a light burden to love God in Jesus, because he brings us his love as a gift. All we have to do is come out and play. And yet we don't!

Deep in each of us is a holy seed. It was planted there (our faith tells us) at Creation. In fact, the seed is a tiny piece of God. Genesis calls it the "image of God". And the image-seed of God remains in us, at the very core of our beings, no matter what we do, or who we are, or what we become, a tiny kernel of divine life deep within us. It might be dormant, but it is not dead. It is in the saint and the sinner, in the homeless man, the atheist, the cheater, the liar, the gambler, the "midnight rider and the crap shooter." It is God's entrée into our souls. When he waters our lives with his holy Word, it is this seed that comes to life within us.

God is proactive on our behalf -- all this bounding over hills, this manic jumping up and peeking over walls, and in at windows, and through the lattice of our lives, this searching desperately for us when we're lost, this shepherding, this knocking at our door, this caring, this loving, this dying -- all this is so that showers of blessing might fall upon that tiny seed, that seed he planted within us so long ago, and which he knows is there, even if we have forgotten altogether.