Song of Solomon 2:8-13; July 5, 2026; Sixth Sunday after Pentecost
Next to Ecclesiastes, Song of Solomon is one of the first books I recommend to atheists.
Perhaps you thought it would be Luke or John. But while our charge indeed is to spread the good news of Jesus Christ (of course, and amen), I’ve often thought we might be more successful if we eased people in.
And Ecclesiastes and Solomon, while not perfect, are magnificent starting blocks. Words of wisdom, color, and poetry that demonstrate that the Word of God while serious can also be playful, commissioning art and embracing romance while celebrating nature and food, labor and love; the finer things that make our human existence more enjoyable and satisfactory, and ultimately, worth living.
“Arise, my love, and come away, for now the winter is past, the rain is gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come.”
Man, if that were a Norah Jones song, no one would blink (and let’s be honest, it basically is).
God is never mentioned in this book, in the Song of Solomon. Not once. And yet, the scroll-keepers and canon-builders, rabbis and teachers, decided it was yet worthy of scripture anyway. Or more exactly, that it was scripture, that it is scripture. For though God is never written as talking, they yet heard God speaking. To them and to us. Through poetry. Through love-song.
Because, after all, that is the imagery of God at is finest, isn’t it? The best and true portrait of the Divine that doesn’t require naming. A love-song of hope. Where we are rescued from darkness by a voice on the wind, whispering, “Arise, my love, and come away with me, for the winter is past and the rain is gone.”
Amen!
This text paints it, my friends. Just like flowers often say more than words ever can.
“Flowers appear on the earth, the time of signing has begun.”
Where have flowers appeared for you recently, on this earth and in your life?
Perhaps they’ve appeared on the kitchen table celebrating a birthday? Or, maybe in the bedroom celebrating an anniversary? Or, maybe they’ve shown up at a reception celebrating an achievement? Or, maybe in the office celebrating a retirement?
Or maybe, flowers haven’t appeared in any of those places, but rather, all around you in gardens and flower beds, in parks and mountain trails.
Do you know that according to the University of Florida (where our own Jack Dreisbach will be attending as a freshman this Fall – go Jack!) that there are anywhere between 295,000 and 352,000 flowering plants and angiosperm species? 295,000-352,000!! And those are the ones that are known to us! Amazing.
I was once in Amsterdam to see a Radiohead show (of course), and an art-exhibition featuring the works of Rembrandt and Caravaggio side-by-side (incredible); and yet, the tulips, my God, the tulips were the show-stealer.
“Flowers will appear on the earth” – if it is anything like what I saw in the Netherlands, the promise of the Song of Solomon will be magnificent indeed!
Where has hope popped in color like that for you, my friends? Where your breath has been taken away by a plant, by an angiosperm, by a flowering species? Where you have noticed them in your own life, in your own travels, and where by their witness, hope has sprung eternal?
…
Though maybe, if you’re struggling to remember, it’s because you simply can’t answer. After all, not everyone has been to Amsterdam. Not everyone has seen Radiohead. Not everyone can appreciate Caravaggio and Rembrandt, and so, perhaps for you, like so many others, life just hasn’t been as kind to you.
So unkind, in fact, that maybe even if flowers have appeared, you haven’t noticed them, and wouldn’t be able to at all?
Or perhaps they have shown up, but just where you wish they hadn’t. On the grave for instance. On the casket. Dried up on a wall or upon your mantle.
Or worse, maybe they aren’t even in those places anymore.
Perhaps time has been unkind that everyone has moved on and forgotten to give them. To share them. To plant and place them.
If so, I’m sorry.
Sometimes, with or without intention, this world can be so thoughtless and cruel, can’t it? And it can feel like winter just never ends, and the Night King is on the iron throne, and ghosts and ghouls rule over all.
You know, I was talking to someone on my porch in preparation for the 4th, our 250th, and they said bluntly, they didn’t feel like celebrating this year. That even though the days leading up to it were bright and scorching, their soul had been darkened and cold. They then added dryly “Make America Great Again.” To which I titled my head, chuckled, and asked what time they thought would be great to visit again? And without a beat they answered: “The 90’s/early 2000’s”
I thought, I’m not sure that’s how the phrase is used and was intended, but to be fair (knowing that every generation says this), those were some pretty neat times…and would be a dream to return to again.
I mean, problems notwithstanding (and there were many), imagine being carried away back to a time when Green Day was popular, Bill and Bushes were presidents, and when some dude named Seal was singing about being kissed from a rose on a grave, or something.
And remember those floral backpacks that were a fad for a hot-second (you know, those clear plastic nylon backpacks covered in sunflowers and all) and how they were the must-have back-to-school item?
Or, even more obscure, remember when that movie called “Adaptation” came out with Nicholas Cage and Meryl Streep about a dark scandal, romance, and orchids? Ah, even movies back then were great.
Ah, yes, this country 30-years ago felt simpler. Easier. And yet, also more creative, budding with hope and promise, not to mention some righteous rage (against the machine). We sure didn’t have 400 masked white supremacists with confederate flags marching through our capital; no, we just had fireworks, and hot dogs, and no cell phones.
Alas, all dreams come to an end, and we are forced to wake up.
For we can’t go backwards, my friends. We know this.
The only path we ever have is forward.
Through the summer. Through the Fall. Through November and another winter. Trusting that after it is all over, and the rain is gone, flowers will appear, and a time of singing will come.
Praising the voice, that while seemingly distant, is yet always near; whispering, “my love, my fair one, come away with me… to a better place, a higher level, where there will be fireworks made out of a thousand flowers and with each one and a magnificent pop that sounds, such that the mountains will shake, and the sky shatters, and we will all pierce the atmosphere finding haven in the world to come.”
So let it be.
Amen.
