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Reign of Christ

Psalm 132
At Ephrathah we heard God's ark was there;
we found it in the region of Jaar.
'Let us approach the place where the Most High rests,
let us kneel in worship at God's footstool.'
Arise, O God, and enter your resting-place,
you and your mighty ark.
Let your priests be clothed with righteousness;
let your faithful people shout for joy. R
For your servant David's sake, do not reject your Anointed.
You made a sure promise to David,
a promise that will never be revoked:
'One of your own children I will set upon your throne.
And if they in turn keep my covenant,
the teaching that I give them,
their descendants too shall sit on your throne
in succession for ever.' R


As symbols of royal power go, this one has had a troubled history.

I’m speaking, of course, about the mace, that fancy gilded object that looks—well, like a mace—and is a symbol of the authority of the crown. It sits on a table in the center of the house, and reminds legislators that the Her Majesty (or her representative) is always present. Parliamentary fun fact: when the queen or her representative is actually there, the mace is draped with a velvet cloth, since it would be redundant to have it out.

The troubled history began during that time our town was captured by the Americans. Funny, we don’t seem to talk about it much, maybe we’re embarrassed about the defeat in April 1813, but one of the atrocities was the burning of parliament (then located on Parliament Street) and the theft of the mace. For 122 years it sat in the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland, a prize of war, until FDR saw fit to return it.

Fast forward to 1849, and the replacement mace was busy serving the Parliament of the United Provinces of Canada in Montreal. Stolen by a riotous mob, it was returned. Threatened after a riotous mob burned parliament to the ground, it was saved. Moved to Ottawa when our shiny new dominion was formed, it lived a comfortable life after all that tumult only to be caught in the 1916 fire that destroyed the Centre Block, leaving the mace just a lump of gold and silver amalgam.

The great thing about symbols, though, is you can just make another one. The mace, the throne, even parliament itself can be rebuilt or replaced but the underlying authority remains. So too with the symbols of biblical kingship, beginning, of course, with the Ark of the Covenant. Constructed while the Israelites were wandering in the desert, this symbol of God’s presence became the unifying symbol during this period. It contained the shattered tablets and a pot of manna, representing God’s law and the God’s sustaining presence through bread from heaven.

When they entered the promised land, the ark led the way. The waters of the Jordan parted (more symbolism) and the feet of those who carried the ark remained dry. It was carried about the walls of Jericho seven times, leading the siege before the walls tumbled down. The ark then become an important tool of war, leading the army of the conquest, overcoming tribes and peoples until the day it did not.

Captured by the Philistines, much like our beloved mace, it became a prize of war. Apparently the Philistines didn’t have a naval academy, so the ark was toured around the land, now a symbol of the humiliation of the Israelites. Well that backfired. At Ashdod, it caused the holy statue of Dagon to fall. Outside the temple of Dagon, the people developed tumours, followed by a plague of mice, just because. Moved to Gath, then Ekron, it gave the locals boils. Moved to a nearby field, some made sacrifices before the ark, and seventy were smitten—not smitten like your first sweetheart, but smitten.

Needless to say, this particular symbol wasn’t working out for the Philistines, so they packaged it up and gave it back, return to sender. The Israelites, by this point used to fighting without the ark, sort of forgot about it. It wasn’t fully retired, but King Saul was too impatient to consult the ark or carry the ark and it began to collect dust.

Enter David. Former shepherd boy, budding poet, he quickly becomes a favourite in the king’s court, impressing Saul and befriending Jonathan, and the world seems good and pleasant. David kills the giant, and the old king begins to feel uneasy, wondering what’s next for this bright, young warrior, if it isn’t the throne of Saul himself. I’ll leave it to you to read 1 Samuel, the Bible’s own Game of Thrones, but the outcome is certain: David becomes King David, and we arrive at Psalm 132.

Power is an interesting thing. Often it’s easier to get than keep, and in maintaining to you need to have a narrative, a compelling story that becomes symbolic in its own way. And in the case of David, former shepherd boy, part-time poet, giant killer, there should be enough material to string together a myth or two that will help him maintain power. But it’s not enough.

Then he remembered the ark. Languishing in Kirjath-jearim, nearly forgotten, David decides to return it to the centre of royal power, in his new capital, a unifying (and rather convenient) symbol for the House of David. Hear the myth-making begin:

O God, remember David and all the hardships he endured,
how he swore an oath to you,
a promise to the Mighty One of Jacob.
'I will not enter my house, nor will I climb into my bed,
I will not give sleep to my eyes, not even let my eyelids droop
until I find a place for God,
a dwelling for the Mighty One of Jacob.'

Ignoring the Dr. Seuss sounding poetry, the psalmist is setting the scene, making it transactional: David will honour God by finding a home for the ark, refusing to rest until God is returned to the centre of Israelite life (and near the throne of the new king).

But it’s not enough to make promises, or bring it back, the story requires a beginning, middle and end, so we learn more:

At Ephrathah we heard God's ark was there;
we found it in the region of Jaar.
'Let us approach the place where the Most High rests,
let us kneel in worship at God's footstool.'
Arise, O God, and enter your resting-place,
you and your mighty ark.
Let your priests be clothed with righteousness;
let your faithful people shout for joy. R

The psalmist added a little Dan Brown here, ‘we heard where it was, we found it in the region of Jaar.’ The story of the moving the ark, the poor fellow smitten (not in a good way) when his hand touched the ark, David’s awkward and revealing dance—all of these details are omitted in the psalm because this is not history being written, this is myth.

My resident biblical scholar would interrupt me at this point to say that this is more than myth-making, this is a good example of rewritten scripture, taking the source material and adapting it to make a point or further an agenda. And overall, that’s what seems to be happening in Psalm 132. The story of David is being rewritten and set to song in an effort to add legitimacy to a fledgling dynasty. The psalmist has taken the long story of David, and specifically the promises God made to David in 2 Samuel 7, and turned them into propaganda (the good kind, to be sure, but still propaganda).

And just when the myth-making seems complete, and the promise of a perpetual dynasty seems sure, the psalmist does something unexpected. Remembering that in 2 Samuel God promises a ‘house and kingdom that will endure forever’ we hear this:

For your servant David's sake, do not reject your Anointed.
You made a sure promise to David,
a promise that will never be revoked:
'One of your own children I will set upon your throne.
And if they in turn keep my covenant,
the teaching that I give them,
their descendants too shall sit on your throne
in succession for ever.' R

Suddenly the psalmist is the real prophet, transforming the promise to ‘what God meant to say was ‘if they can keep my covenant, and the law’ then you can keep your throne forever. Kings shutter and governments pause because legitimacy is conditional, it requires faithfulness. What seemed like a sure thing, a perpetual throne and an eternal right is really no more than a contract after all.

At Westminster, the mother of all parliaments, the queen must wait before she can enter the Commons, the people’s house, owing to a little incident during the English Civil War when Charles I had his men enter the Commons to arrest some troublesome MPs. Today, in the robing room where the queen waits is a very unique document, framed and hanging in the wall: the death warrant of Charles I, the instrument signed authorizing his execution after harbouring the foolish idea that kings rule by divine right alone. It’s a symbol and a reminder, that parliament and the monarch are partners in our system, and must work together to serve the people.

The kingdoms of this world have everything they need to be faithful: the law and the gospels, the command to love God while loving neighbour, the words of prophets and seers in scripture and verse. All of these are known, and all of these are available. It doesn’t take a freedom of information request to know that governments know what is required of them. Seek justice, love mercy, walk humbly with your God. Do these, and kingdoms endure, Amen.

posted by michael jacob kooiman @ 7:42 PM