Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
I was listening to KD Lang's version of the great Leonard Cohen song, "Hallelujah" the other day, as I began the process of packing to move.
Our apartment building was quickly and quietly sold to a developer, as were the two apartment buildings next door. Our seven households don't know what is going to happen next, but we know that something very precious is coming to an end.
Cohen's song makes reference to a story in 2 Samuel 11, about King David and Bathsheba. Bathsheba was married to a soldier named Uriah, who loved his wife very much. One day, while David was strolling on his deck, he noticed the beautiful Bathsheba and wanted her for himself. He had Uriah sent to the frontlines of battle, knowing that he would be killed. Uriah's widow soon became David's wife, just as the king had planned.
At that time, there was a prophet named Nathan serving David's kingdom. The Lord spoke to Nathan and asked him to have a word with the King.
Nathan sat King David down and told him a parable about a very rich man who had large flocks of sheep and herds of cattle and a very poor man who had just one ewe, which he loved and treated like a daughter. One day, company arrived at the rich man's home. He didn't want to part with one of his own sheep, so he took the poor man's precious ewe and served it to his guests. Hearing the story, David was furious and called for the rich man's punishment.
"But David," said Nathan, "don't you see? That rich man is you."
King David had the right and the means to take the most precious things from Uriah — his wife and his life. And so, he did.
In gaining what he wanted, King David lost a big part of who he was. He caused a heap of hurt that couldn't ever be made right again; a most precious thing had been destroyed. He had to live with that for the rest of his life.
Unlike most of my neighbors, I haven't lived in The Fort for very long. I soon discovered a community of people who are deeply connected and committed to this place and to each other.
Their generosity and hospitality amazed me. The first winter I was here, people dropped off dinner night after night when they found out I had pneumonia. Others walked my dog, scraped off my car, called to check in.
I haven't been here long, but it's been long enough to watch the kid at the end of the street progress from riding a unicycle to driving his own car. It's been long enough to get to know every neighbor, every dog and every frequent visitor to the neighborhood by name.
Parish ministers are called to build communities that we can never really belong to. So, these years of living in The Fort have been very, very precious to me. I have been welcomed and included in a way that has nourished my soul and filled me with a sense of belonging and gratitude. Community is a precious, precious thing.
I hear a lot of people around town talk about "progress" and "change" and "development" in my neighborhood. People talk a lot about real estate and property values and taxes and eyesores and improvements. What people don't talk about much, though, is what happens to a society when a culture and a community are destroyed in the name of progress.
A few years ago, I heard a Native American pastor who spoke about what the loss of Native culture and traditions and rituals and sense of community has done to his people, "We have forgotten who we are and whose we are," he said.
When we forget about where we have come from and who we belong to, we lose our very selves. Without a context of community with which to identify, we don't know who we are, anymore. When community is destroyed, so is our society and our sense of belonging to something greater than ourselves.
Friends, you and I belong to God and to each other. There is nothing more precious than allowing our lives to be shaped by that sacred truth — and nothing more dangerous than forgetting it.
Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
The Rev. Rona Tyndall is pastoral care coordinator of Hospice of the North Shore.
