A Woman of Worth

Preached November 18th, 2018

1 Samuel 1:1-20 New Revised Standard Version (NRSV)

1 There was a certain man of Ramathaim, a Zuphite^[a] from the hill country of Ephraim, whose name was Elkanah son of Jeroham son of Elihu son of Tohu son of Zuph, an Ephraimite. ² He had two wives; the name of the one was Hannah, and the name of the other Peninnah. Peninnah had children, but Hannah had no children.

³ Now this man used to go up year by year from his town to worship and to sacrifice to the Lord of hosts at Shiloh, where the two sons of Eli, Hophni and Phinehas, were priests of the Lord. ⁴ On the day when Elkanah sacrificed, he would give portions to his wife Peninnah and to all her sons and daughters; ⁵ but to Hannah he gave a double portion,^[b]because he loved her, though the Lord had closed her womb. ⁶ Her rival used to provoke her severely, to irritate her, because the Lord had closed her womb. ⁷ So it went on year by year; as often as she went up to the house of the Lord, she used to provoke her. Therefore Hannah wept and would not eat. ⁸ Her husband Elkanah said to her, “Hannah, why do you weep? Why do you not eat? Why is your heart sad? Am I not more to you than ten sons?”

⁹ After they had eaten and drunk at Shiloh, Hannah rose and presented herself before the Lord.^[c] Now Eli the priest was sitting on the seat beside the doorpost of the temple of the Lord. ¹⁰ She was deeply distressed and prayed to the Lord, and wept bitterly. ¹¹ She made this vow: “O Lord of hosts, if only you will look on the misery of your servant, and remember me, and not forget your servant, but will give to your servant a male child, then I will set him before you as a nazirite^[d]until the day of his death. He shall drink neither wine nor intoxicants,^[e]and no razor shall touch his head.”

¹² As she continued praying before the Lord, Eli observed her mouth. ¹³ Hannah was praying silently; only her lips moved, but her voice was not heard; therefore Eli thought she was drunk. ¹⁴ So Eli said to her, “How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? Put away your wine.” ¹⁵ But Hannah answered, “No, my lord, I am a woman deeply troubled; I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, but I have been pouring out my soul before the Lord. ¹⁶ Do not regard your servant as a worthless woman, for I have been speaking out of my great anxiety and vexation all this time.” ¹⁷ Then Eli answered, “Go in peace; the God of Israel grant the petition you have made to him.” ¹⁸ And she said, “Let your servant find favor in your sight.” Then the woman went to her quarters,^[f] ate and drank with her husband,^[g] and her countenance was sad no longer.^[h]

¹⁹ They rose early in the morning and worshiped before the Lord; then they went back to their house at Ramah. Elkanah knew his wife Hannah, and the Lord remembered her. ²⁰ In due time Hannah conceived and bore a son. She named him Samuel, for she said, “I have asked him of the Lord.”

 

“Do not regard your servant as a worthless woman.” I imagine the words echoing through the temple. Hannah, staring up at this man, tears in her eyes, begging him to reconsider what he has just said to her. Pleading that he welcome her, rather than rebuke her. Asking him to be different.

“Do not regard your servant as a worthless woman.” I imagine Eli looking at the tears falling from the woman’s eyes, his rebuke of her still hanging in the air between them. His anger dissolving as he realizes she is not drunk, but pained. His righteous indignation turning to shame and then transforming into compassion.

“Do not regard your servant as a worthless woman.”

The story of Hannah is the story of someone who has been made to feel worthless. We are told in the scriptures that Hannah was barren, that “The Lord had closed her womb.” As a wife, and woman of her time, this barrenness came with great shame. There had to be some reason that God had made her barren. God cast some sort of judgement on her. God was making some sort of statement about her worth by keeping her womb closed.

We see this shame, this narrative of worthlessness, playing out in Hannah’s life. Her husband, Elkanah, has another wife, Peninah, who has borne him children. And we hear about how Peninah mocks Hannah, year after year. Hannah is driven to the point of tears, to not eating, to locking herself away from the world. And although her husband tries to help, he doesn’t. He says his love for her should be enough, but it isn’t. He doesn’t get it. No amount of love from him is going to open her womb. He may call her worthy, but no one else does. Penninah doesn’t. Society doesn’t. And, to be honest, sometimes it feels like God doesn’t either.

So, she goes to the temple and prays. Not knowing where else to turn or who else to go to, Hannah lives into her faith, praying for God to remember her, to bless her with a child, bargaining and promising, pouring out her soul, trying her best to find worth in a moment that she feels worthless.

And suddenly Eli is there, rebuking her for drunkenness. “Put away your wine,” he says. “Get out.”

This is a critical moment for Hannah. Here she is, in the temple, speaking to her God out of the anxiety, trouble, and vexation she carries with her, brought down upon her from years of being told she is worthless. She is before God, trying to remind herself that she is worthy and loved. And then a man of God tells her that she does not belong in that space, that she should not be talking to God. And she’s forced to make a choice. She can leave in shame, or she can stand up and claim her worth.

Hannah chooses the latter. Despite everything that society has told her, despite the provokation, the shaming, the questioning, the doubting, she knows that she has worth. And the minute Eli tries to take it away from her, to make her feel worthless like almost every other person in her life, she summons her strength and refutes him.

“Do not regard your servant as a worthless woman.”

Like so many others, the story of Hannah resonates with me. I see myself in Hannah. There have been points in my life where I felt utterly and completely worthless. Throughout middle school and early high school I was bullied, relentlessly. On an almost daily basis I was told that I was not worthy. I wasn’t enough. Everything about my being was picked apart and torn down, almost every day when I was in school. My body, my personality, my intelligence, my interests, everything about me was made to feel wrong. I was told by peers that I was unloveable. I was told that I would never fit in. I have a particularly painful memory of some girls in my class mooing at me, their little creative way of calling me a cow.

Like Hannah, the message that I was getting from the context I lived in was that I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t worthy.

Yet I was extremely lucky. Because I had church. For me, church was a place that I could go to and be fully and completely accepted. My church family showered me with love. In church I was reminded of God’s love and grace, of Jesus’ coming to Earth for humanity, of which I am included, of the Spirit enfolding me in its embrace, as I was and as I am. In church, I felt worthy, and any time I didn’t, there was someone there to remind me that I was. For me, the house of my faith was a safe haven that I could turn to. Like Hannah, I could come and pour out my soul, my worries, my vexations and anxieties, the things that made me feel worthless, to a God that called me worthy and loved me.

But I realize that I was extremely lucky. Because the pain that my 13, 14, 15 year old self experienced was embraced by my church. It was cared for by my church. It was held in my church. I was never told that I had to go. Unlike Eli, my church did not rebuke me or tell me to leave. It affirmed my worthiness.

But this is not always the story.

So often we hear about church being a space that affirms narratives of worthlessness. Where, like Eli, we inside the walls question and label and rebuke those who we don’t think belong in the space. Through a combination of policies, interpretations, affirmations, and practices churches exclude those who come to them. With righteous indignation we turn away those seeking love, connection, and inclusion. We are Eli, shaming Hannah for being drunk, without any second thought.

And by being Eli, we harm, rather than help. Kick down, rather than uplift.

And this is certainly not what we are called to be. As the church, we follow the guidance of God, the example of Jesus, the movement of the Spirit, all which call us to live a life of love and care for our neighbors. As the church, we follow the God that Hannah extols in her song. A God who raises the poor from the dust, the needy from the ash heap and makes them sits with princes. A God who looks at the those who, like Hannah, call out in anxiety and vexation, and calls them good and loved.

Any church that says differently than that God, our God, cannot last.

In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus says institutions that are led astray from the call of God will be torn down, stone by stone. Any church that practices exclusion cannot last in the kin-dom of God. No matter how great, how old, or how grand, it will be brought to an end. Stone by stone.

Yet, that ending does not need to be the ending. Yes, the institutions, the churches, that exclude will be torn down, but tearing down stones does not have to mean destruction. Because the stones we tear down can be used to rebuild. The institutions can be made new. The pangs of tearing down do not need to be the pangs of death. Instead, they can be the pangs of birth and revitalization, the pangs of being transformed as we are drawn nearer to the heart of God.

This is a hope that we see in our story today. Eli, who initially rejected Hannah, is given a chance to change, to transform.

“Do not regard your servant as a worthless woman,” Hannah says, and in doing so she gives Eli a choice. He can either double down on his rebuking and force Hannah out of the temple, or he can reorient himself, rescind his words, and reach out to draw her in.

He chooses the latter.

Eli, in being confronted by Hannah recognizes that he has acted unlovingly. He sees that he has harmed her further, that he has added to her anxiety and vexation and feelings of worthlessness, and he changes his mind. Instead of forcing her out, he chooses to draw her in. We’re not told if it was painful for him to admit he was wrong, to swallow his righteousness and pride and uplift this woman who he just put down. But I would guess it was. Admitting wrong is painful. But in doing so he made a way for something new.

Hannah, who for so long longed for a child, has her womb opened. A child is born, a son. And later, when he is old enough, we see that Hannah takes her son, Samuel, to the Temple to be brought up by Eli. The very man who once rejected her is the one with whom she entrusts her son. The Temple, a place where she was once made to feel she did not belong, is now the home of her flesh and blood. In Eli changing his heart, a new thing was able to happen.

Friends, so many Hannah’s exist in our world. The immigrant who is going through the lengthy legal process so she is not separated from her children through deportation. The car factory worker who lost the only job he knew and then voted for someone who promised him a future where he would be needed again. The addict who relapsed and whose health insurance won’t cover recovery. The couple whose joy at a pregnancy gave way to grief when it ended in miscarriage, and they don’t know how to tell people. The transgender college student who isn’t sure which communal shower is safest for them to use. The teenage girl who is bullied day after day to the point she’s unsure if she’ll ever find her people.

All of them, Hannah. All of them in need of a space where they are affirmed as worthy. Where they are loved and accepted and called good. Where they don’t have to prove to anyone they hold worth, but where that worth is assumed.

This is what we are called to be as the church. We are called to be the place where no one has to stand up and say, “Do not regard me as worthless.” And, yes, we are going to mess up. Yes, we may be like Eli, and in a moment of righteousness place a label on someone and say, “You do not belong here.” But the good news is, when we do that it is not the end. We are given an opportunity to change. To tear down the stones of exclusion and rebuild something new. Something beautiful. Something true. Something that includes all, and I mean all, in the loving, embracing, kin-dom of God.