The riddle of grace

The incompleteness of Samson’s story, and indeed the incompleteness of the entire book of Judges, is an invitation to hear the book of Judges in its larger canonical context, especially the context of the prophetic canon. The prophetic canon bears witness to the ultimate riddle or mystery—that a God who fervently wills faithfulness, justice, and peace remains unfailingly committed to people whose persistent unfaithfulness and disobedience regularly result in chaos and destruction. In a word, of course, it is the riddle of grace. The story of Samson, the entire book of Judges, and the whole prophetic canon fully articulate God’s fervent desire for the covenant loyalty that produces life as God intends it; they unflinchingly document the human unfaithfulness that yields chaos and destruction; and yet they affirm God’s abiding presence and commitment amid the messes that God’s people make. The prophetic books—including the book of Judges (and especially the book of Judges at its lowest point with Samson and the aftermath in chaps. 17–21)—are powerful statements of hope; not hope in “culture heroes” like Samson, but rather hope in a God whose grace is greater than our ability to comprehend and whose commitment to justice, righteousness, and peace surpasses our understanding.

J. Clinton McCann, Judges: Interpretation, a Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (emphasis mine)

Between subsistence and decadence

Today, I’m grateful to live in a space between subsistence and decadence, between scarcity and consumption. It feels like a gift. I can work for harvest, enjoying the fruit of my labor, while also knowing that my work was never going to be enough anyway. I can give tomatoes away, and I can leave a few on the vine without fear. And I wonder if this is what it means to flourish, to exist in a place where limits are no liability because abundance is sure. I wonder if this is Eden.

Grace to work. Grace to receive. Grace to know it never depended on me in the first place.

Hannah Anderson, from "Turning of Days: Lessons from Nature, Season, and Spirit", p.103

Rising through the stack of the past

But perhaps you would argue that, since you want to be a contemporary poet, you do not want to be too much under the influence of what is old, attaching to the term the idea that old is old hat - out-of-date. You imagine you should surround yourself with the modern only. It is an error. The truly contemporary creative force is something that is built out of the past, but with a difference.

Most of what calls itself contemporary is built, whether it knows it or not, out of a desire to be liked. It is created in imitation of what already exists and is already admired. There is, in other words, nothing new about it. To be contemporary is to rise through the stack of the past, like the fire through the mountain. Only a heat so deeply and intelligently born can carry a new idea into the air.

Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook, p.11f

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There is much about this that could be applied to the task and calling of the preacher.

The differences are not profound

This comment by Mary Oliver regarding poetry might also be usefully considered in relation to how we see and understand people and their stories from long, long ago:

In looking for poems and poets, don't dwell on the boundaries of style, or time, or even of countries and cultures. Think of yourself rather as one member of a single, recognizable tribe. Expect to understand poems of other eras and other cultures. Expect to feel intimate with the distant voice. The differences you will find between then and now are interesting. They are not profound.

Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook, p.11

The root system of the visible now

[Eugene] Peterson’s various insights into the vocational benefits of reading are nowhere more compelling than in the places where he writes about pastoral caregiving. In Run with the Horses, one of Peterson’s earliest books, he writes, “Lives cannot be read as newspaper reports on current events; they are unabridged novels with character and plot development, each paragraph essential for mature appreciation.”

I have long been struck by his words “mature appreciation.” It’s as if Peterson is saying that, as pastors, to interpret human beings on the basis of the words they are currently speaking, or the problems they are currently presenting, is not only to provide an attenuated sort of pastoral care but also to telegraph a certain form of immaturity, one rooted in a fear of complexity and a need to offer quick resolutions—much as it would be to read about a lavish party at Jay Gatsby’s house and, knowing nothing of Gatsby’s humble origins, hastily conclude that he throws such parties simply to put on airs. It would be to completely miss the point. “The before,” Peterson writes, “is the root system of the visible now.”

"The Pastor's Bookshelf: Why Reading Matters for Ministry" by Austin Carty.