The lie unpunished --a meditation

“…the word of the Lord came to the prophet

who had brought him back…”

--1 Kings 13:20

 I’m still thinking about this story. It won’t let me alone, though I may be alone in this.  For me, the real question is why did the story teller tell this story?  If we assume that the story teller behind the stories in the Bible is God, that it is actually His word, then my question is: why is God telling us a story about a prophet who lies to a “man of God,” and tricks him into not fulfilling God’s call, and yet the liar goes unpunished, while the man who was tricked is killed by a lion for not doing exactly what God told him to do… and—another thing: Why put the prophecy of this doom into the mouth of the prophet who lied?  Why would the writer/creator of this tale, whether it is God or just a regular old story teller, create such a troubling story? Why not make it neater, with an obvious moral for the edification of the audience?

And, for me, well… I’ve ben struggling with what the actual lesson of this story is.  And now I am beginning to wonder if that struggle, my struggle, isn’t the point –or at least part of God’s lesson.

I keep getting hung up on the unpunished lie, but this story is no more a story about an unpunished lie (and a king’s withered hand [cf. 13:4]) than Hamlet is a play about ghosts and sword fighting! Which is what I thought Hamlet was about when I first bought myself a copy at the used bookstore on Long Point (near the old Kmart). It was 1973 and the copy I bought (for .65 cents) had a drawing of a dead body, a ghost and a man with a sword on the cover –and since I had just finished reading Frankenstein and Dracula and (I think) had just seen Captain Blood for the first time, it looked like the perfect cover to the perfect book for me!  And heck, I already had part of it memorized: “To be or not to be, …”

Yet, –much to my 13-year-old self’s consternation— Hamlet is not really a play about ghosts and swordplay; as I have learned with time and reading and rereading, it is so very much more. It is a work that –in fact—reveals itself again and again to be so much more with each rereading.

There is a complexity to it, and a multiplicity of meanings that arise from its multi-faceted characters and plot and the boldness and largeness of its language.  Some readers will focus on the patriarchal elements and derive lessons about male dominance and female subservience, others will see themes of Oedipal conflict in the struggles between Hamlet and his step father (and his beloved mother), and still others will find Hamlet’s psychological turmoil over the idea of revenge to be the most compelling elements of the play… but, for me –when I taught the play to high school seniors—I began to hear in it man’s struggle to define himself and his place in a universe where he feels alone and compelled to make his own decisions about what is right and wrong; I heard in it a drama of life in a post-Catholic world.  At the beginning of the play, Hamlet returns from Wittenberg (i.e. Luther’s 95 Theses), and Laertes comes home from the University of Paris (i.e. scholasticism, tradition & Thomas Aquinas).   And throughout the play Hamlet questions whether he has the right to decide things on his own (i.e. interpret the world for himself), while Laertes does what he is told –i.e. obeys the magisterium of king, culture and family… Yes, I know there is more to it than that.  Seemingly nothing about the play is as simple as one might imagine upon first, second, third, fourth, eight, twelfth reading. The writing is so imaginative, alive and unsettling that each time I read it, I hear or learn something new; with each new gaze, the depths of works like Hamlet and The Divine Comedy, Homer’s epics, The Bible, seem only to grow deeper and the truths ever more profound.  One is left to wonder who wrote such things (and how). 

Which brings me back to the enigmatic story at hand. In my reading, the complexity in this story derives more from what has been left out than what has been included.  The fact that no judgment is offered about the prophet who lies, leaves us to ponder his actions, and his role in the story?  To contemplate the meaning of his role.  And why God would continue to use him to voice his message.  What could that mean? According to my Jerome Biblical Commentary some scholars have argued that this is a midrash story redacted into a historical document, and their focus is on the “man of God” punished for being disobedient, but my focus is on the source of his disobedience: the unpunished lie. The more I meditate on this element of the story, the stranger it seems to me.  Of course, one might dismiss this enigmatic element by saying: clearly it wasn’t important to the author; so let it go and move on.  Don’t waste your time.

But when I was learning to pray Lectio Divina we were taught to hang onto that little piece, that word or phrase or element that caught our attention –hold onto it, because that was what we were being given to ponder.  

And so, there are two things I am still turning over in my head about this apparently unpunished lie.  First: was it actually unpunished?  Is the punishment of the lie found in the message the lying prophet is called to deliver?  When he turns to his dinner guest and says:

“This is what the Lord says: ‘You have defied the word
of the Lord and have not kept the command the Lord your
God gave you. You came back and ate bread and drank
water in the place where he told you not to eat or drink.
Therefore your body will not be buried in the tomb
of your ancestors.’”—1 Kings 13: 21-22

What horror must have run through his own mind –being the one who lied to the “man of God,” knowing that it was through him and his lie that God’s word had been defiled; is that not (perhaps) his punishment: to live with the knowledge of the dishonor and doom that he helped bring to a fellow prophet?  Certainly some of my own worst memories are of the evil I have brought to others, even more than the evil I have committed on my own.

And second: perhaps one thing God is telling me, is this:  it’s not always about the answers; sometimes it is about the questions.  The complexity of this little simple story inspires me to ask and ponder –and maybe what God is teaching me through it is this: nothing is ever as simple as it looks.  Open your eyes. Open your heart. Look. Listen. Ponder… Ask questions. Ponder some more. 

How often do we look at someone and think: oh, she’s this or he’s that… she’s a snob, or he’s a bully, or she’s a conservative and he’s a liberal, or she’s a goth and he’s a jock… We dismiss the complexity of their humanity by compressing it into a label.   But, no one is that simple.  Everyone contains a multitude of sorrows and joys and contradictions --unspoken… The truth is, as Bob Dylan once said: "...even the president of the United States must sometimes have to stand naked..." There is always something more to be revealed.  And (of course) some things that need to stay between you and your bathroom mirror....  Anyway, as Hemingway so famously claimed, sometimes the most important part of a story –is what was left out.  Think about that for a while... and when you're done, ponder it some more.

Nor return by the way you came

“You are to eat or drink nothing,

nor to return by the way you came.”

1 Kings 13:9

I walked home from the park by a different way this morning.  Not a big change; just Conrad Sauer instead of Shadowdale.  And on my way home I met a man I rarely see anymore.  He is a neighbor of ours, but lives toward the east end of the street and works nights, so he isn’t out during the day much and I guess he has already gone to work when we are out for an evening stroll.  I used to see him in he early mornings when he was coming home from work.  Around 5:30 or 6am he’d come pulling into his driveway usually just as I was pausing to put Mrs. V’s newspaper by her front door.  She lives across the street from him.  Normally we would wave, say good morning. Things like that. Maybe get as far as the weather if we were feeling chatty.  Rarely, but on occasion, he would ask about the kids. After his divorce, the conversation got even more stoic.  We would nod, raise a hand, at most our socializing would extend as far as a greeting.  Nothing more.

Now, usually my walking path is very routine.  I go east to Conrad Sauer and then turn on Londonderry back to Shadowdale and head to the park. The way home is straight Shadowdale. Basically, I pretty much return the way I came.  But this morning I was reading 1 Kings 13 about the “man of God” who was given the order not to eat or drink or return by the way he came, and when he disobeys things don’t go so well for him. So, I thought –let me try it. I will change my route a little.  See what happens.

Coming home, I noticed that the recycle truck must have come. The lids to the green bins were open and there were a few messes in the street where recycled paper and plastic and cans had spilled.   If you read my post about my red pants and picking up trash, you’ll know I am one of those neighbors who doesn’t like to just walk past a mess.  Especially when there is an open can so nearby.  So, coming around the corner I don’t normally return by I saw a few plastic bottles and cans in front of the driveway of the corner house. And a tipped over recycle bin. Without too much hesitation, I picked up the bin and started picking up the mess.  And when I finished I was feeling pretty good about myself.  I’d done my walk –burned enough calories to enjoy a croissant, I hoped—and even done a good deed for a neighbor.  This Bible stuff, it’s not so bad, I thought.

And then I saw my neighbor’s car zip into his driveway, and he hopped out wearing workout clothes that made him look like he could handle a few croissants and a jelly doughnut or two!  I have to say, he’s getting a little buff (if that’s the right word). Anyway he hops out of his car in his skintight workout pants and t-shirt and points to the street, where the truck had spilled beer cans and water bottles and shredded paper from his bin. And he starts cursing. I don’t mean calling on the gods to smite someone with a rain of fire and brimstone or frogs and locus or skin lesions and boils…eegads!  But serious drunken sailor/hammer to the thumb type cursing! He’s cursing the recycle truck and the [expletive deleted] idiots who drive it.  He was standing there, basically yelling some of the most creative expletives deleted I have ever heard outside of a Joe Pesci movie. And in his skin-tight workout pants and t-shirt he starts grabbing up beer cans and plastic bottles and throwing them violently into his recycle bin.

My gut reaction was to bend down and start helping him, but I hesitated. Anger frightens me. But, I was also a little worried that if I started helping things would only get worse.  So, I nodded my head and said, “What can you do?”  It’s a classic non-committal comment that allows an impression of sympathy and compassion without affirming the actual behavior.  I think I learned that one with my kids.

I stood there for a few seconds watching him work. Wishing that I had the spine to just bend over and pick something up.  But before I could summon the gumption, he slammed the lid of his bin closed and wheeled it away cursing again –but a little more quietly this time.

In the story, the “man of God” fails to follow God’s directions; he is tempted by another prophet to come and share a meal. And because he disobeys the Lord, on his way home he is killed by a lion.  But, oddly enough, the lion doesn’t eat him, it just mauls and kills him --then stands guard over his body (cf. 1 Kings 13:24-28) without harming the man’s donkey. In the end, when the body is found, the lion and the donkey are standing either side of it—just waiting. It is a strange and fearful ending to an odd story.

In my version, I guess there is a lion, but instead of killing me he yelled at his recycle bin and walked away. Walking home, I was a little shook up. I had this strange feeling of fear and shame haunting me. I think I was ashamed of our shared moment there. It was such an oddly intimate moment. That was certainly part of it. But also, I think I felt ashamed of my hesitation to help. Why had not just stooped down and begun helping him? But even more, I think I was ashamed because I’ve lived down the street from this man for almost 17 years and I have no idea who he really is.   

And the fear… Well, I’m not good with anger. I have struggled with that fear all my life. When people get angry they lose control.  Situations get out of control.  I think I fear that loss of control most of all.  I think I fear being not only other people losing control, but  that somehow their loss of control will envelop me as well.  It is --I think-- a fear of being completely and utterly vulnerable.  That morning I returned I let go of my habitual route, and came home by a way I had not gone. And in doing so, I saw things –my neighborhood, my neighbor and myself—in a different way. 

Every once in a while, it is important to do that, to break your habits, change your way of thinking, take a different route home.  It may not be easy, and you may start to feel vulnerable, but do it anyway. Even if you are afraid.  Perhaps, especially if you are.