It’s hard to be the brother of a superhero.

Hi, I’m one of Sampson’s brothers. I’ll start my tale with a question I heard recently: Who in your life, do you remember most fondly, with the most feelings of warmth?

Those who were kindest to you, I bet. It’s a little simple, maybe, and certainly hard to implement, but I’d say, as a goal in life, you could do worse than: Try to be kinder.[1]

Samson was a lot of things, but never kind. Much like Michael Jordan in that sports doc that came out in 2020. The Last Dance. Yeah, he achieved. He did an amazing thing with all those championships. But Jordan acted like he did it alone. He still remembers the grudges and carries them. Samson was the same way.

Samson was super strong from the start. He started walking a month after being born. He could bench press the family goat at 6 months. He lifted the family ox by a year. Our parents decided that a strong moral foundation would help. Help provide a grounding from his seemingly limitless strength.

My parents dedicated him as a Nazirite. A Nazirite were men or women who consecrated themselves to God with a special vow. A Nazirite vow had a lot of requirements, but the big three would be: a dedicated life of prayer, abstaining from all alcoholic drinks and unclean foods, and never to shave or cut their hair.[2]

Our Hebrew word nazier usually means “consecrated person” but the writer Leviticus 25:5 uses the term to mean “untrimmed vine.” Meaning these are Wild Jews. Natural and totally Jewish, uncultivated by other means. My parents wanted him to be wildly committed to the Jewish way of life. Samson was supposed to be the best of us. The strongest not just physically but also in faith.

This wildness and specialness resulted in Sampson being entitled. He was always out for himself. We, his brothers, served as punching bags. We couldn’t beat him in sports, we turned to board games. When he found he was losing, he’d throw the table through the ceiling.

We were all just background bit players in his story. Sure, he was talented. He was funny and smart. He was charismatic. He was so, so strong. He was dedicated to his faith, but he forgot himself. He forgot his roots.

He becomes a Judge over our nation, the last before the monarchy. He did amazing works delivering Israel from the Philistines. He acted alone. Not a military leader. He personally took the fight to them, the rest of us were on the sidelines.

One day, he sees a Philistine woman. He asks our parents to marry her, and our parents objected. Samson said that this is tactical. Keep your friends close but your enemies closer, and what’s closer than marriage?

This was the beginning of the end. He bent the vows. He should have married a Jewish woman, which was part of his vows. Instead, he followed his eyes.[3] Whatever he saw that he wanted, he took.

At as his wedding reception, he gives a riddle to the Philistines, promising riches if they figure it out. His wife was able to the answer from him, and she told the Philistines. Samson was so mad, he killed all 30 of them. And then dismissed his wife. Just like that.[4] I don’t even remember her name. Seven days of feasting for nothing. He just walked away from the marriage.

They say power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Samson lost himself. With all his power, he acted on a whim. He never consulted with anyone on anything. I don’t mean to speak ill of my brother. In his best times, he was something to see. Smart, funny, and just very clever. Oh, he could pray. When the Spirit of the Lord was on him, it was a sight to see. Beautiful. And terrible. Samson represented our thinking at the time.

If we were stronger, we could hit our enemies harder than they hit us. We never thought to sit down with our enemies and find a friendship. Or at least a truce. The idea never occurred to us. In times of stress, we just resort to reacting mindlessly. You hit us, we hit you. We act like we’re the good guys in the story, our motives pure and unquestionable. God-ordained and blessed. When you get in that mindset, there’s no need to self-reflect and confess any wrongdoing because there are none.

This is never true. We always have growth and self-reflection to do. We can always be better. We can act in kindness. Maybe some of you have kids or had kids like I do.  I love them. They are my world. Yet I get annoyed with them. I react. They ask for something to eat, and I bite at them. When they do make their own cereal, I complain about how much milk they’re wasting. I ask, “Does money grow on trees?!”

Ugh. I hate when I get like that and in those times, I think of my brother. I weep for him. So much promise. Instead of being grateful for all that he had, he went after more. He was entitled to it all.

Then the business with Delilah. Again, finding a Philistine woman and moving out and she got the secret of his power of him. She cut his hair. The power wasn’t in the hair itself, but what it represented. “A razor has never come upon my head.” This was the Nazirite vow. The true source of his strength; his identity.

When Samsons hair was cut off, I have to imagine how cut off he felt from himself. He was outside of our land. Far from his family. Looking back on his life, he saw all the ways he violated his vows. How far he strayed. How he missed all the gifts he was given.

We miss all the small ways we’re gifted. The gift of a snow-covered field. How the light is staying longer than it has been. The gift of a good book and a comfortable blanket. Time with family and friends. Random acts of art, senseless acts of beauty.

I hear the Philistines tore Samson’s eyes out. It’s fitting. That’s what led him astray. He only saw how to get what he wanted. And did. He only looked for ways to beat the Philistines. When we can only say what we’re against, we can forget what we’re for. His eyes led him astray with woman as well.

He must have felt all of these things as he was bound and tied to those columns in that Philistine temple. It’s why he brought the house down. My brothers and I came and took his body. We buried him between Zorah and Eshtaol, in our father’s tomb.

Sometimes, we need reminders of each other and what we’re about. Our traditions don’t exist for themselves. They serve a purpose. Religion gives us a way of getting outside of ourselves. It helps cultivate a gratitude for this life we have been gifted with. We are moved to offer God our praise and thanksgiving. We gather to hold one another in prayer. To journey through this life together, to affirm one another. To weep with those who weep. To rejoice with those who are rejoicing.

This tradition, well, I’ve read the vows you’ve taken. If you’re a member or if you’ve been baptized, it’s the same questions. The last question is “Do you promise to participate in the life and mission of this family of God’s people, sharing regularly in the worship of God and enlisting in the work of this local church as it serves this community and the world?”

If so, please respond: We do, with the help of God.

And the congregation promises their love, support, and care. This promise has no qualifiers. “Only when we feel like it.” Or “only if you behave a certain way.” No. This promise has no qualifiers.

We promise to be community, no matter what may come. For that is how God promises to us.

I can slip into Samson thinking when I ask God, “Why are people so annoying? I love them but wow.”

God says, “Well, I love you. No matter what.”

“Yeah, well that’s because I’m delightful,” I say.

And then God is uncomfortably silent for a while.

“Oh, yeah. Thanks for your love God, especially when I’m hard to love. I hope to offer that to others. Thanks for the reminder.”[5]

Part of our covenant is to find out what makes us kinder, what opens us up and brings out the most loving, generous, and unafraid version of us—and go after those things as if nothing else matters. Because, actually, nothing else does.[6]

Samson went after life with wild abandon. He could have used a little reflection. A little kindness. Maybe then he could have been reminded of his identity before it was too late. I was talking with one of you a while about identity, and you said “Well, it’s all in the name: Medina, United Church of Christ, Congregational.

“Medina is where we are and have been for over 200 years.

“United Church of Christ is who we are now.

“Congregational is who we were. It all matters and it’s all still here. It’s who we are.”[7]

I thought that was profound. Your identity, the promises you make to one another… the covenant you make and keep with each other. It matters. As Congregationalists, your ancestors thought that local is best. No one, no bishop or pope or King of England can tell you what to do. You’ll do it ourselves for you know what the Spirit is doing among you.

The United Church of Christ is about being united and uniting in answer to Jesus’ prayer, “That they all may be one.” You seek unity. I say seek, because sometimes it’s hard to find. Unity can be found by gathering together in prayer and bible study and for worship and just to be social. All people. Every single neighbor. Regardless of race, creed, class, orientation, any of that. Unity. Neighborliness.

Samson was the weakest person in the world on the topic of neighborliness.

You’re here in Medina. Medina, a small village with a great history. With Eliza Northrop and H.G. Blake, and A.I. Root and Letha House. Amazing folk, all. Just a small village of some 2,000 then grew to a city in the 1970s and now, with the township is almost 50,000 people. With that growth, the square is maintained. A friendliness and a neighborliness have been maintained.

You’re not the warring sort. You have cultivated kindness. When George Floyd was killed, a protest was planned. While other places went wild with violence like my brother would, you did a protest in a way that only Medina can do it. With unity.

There are some who seek to divide black lives and blue lives. When Pastor Arthur Ruffin, a black pastor of the historical black congregation locks arms with Police Chief Ed Kenney, a white man and walks around the Square to say, “Black Lives Matter” and they matter to all lives. Our whole community. We are neighbors and nothing can take that away.

Up in that steeple there hangs a bell you all recently saved by putting your poor Reverend in the Rafters. That bell came to you in 1836, when a merchant made his travel to New York. He delivered that bell, and he died a week later. The bell was first rung out at his funeral. And rang out for so many funerals over the years. And to call folks to worship to this day.

Recently, Ashley, the stepdaughter of Pastor Ruffin rang that bell. She loved pulling that rope and hearing the clear bell toll. It came upon me then, that these black neighbors, those souls, those brothers and sisters in faith at Second Baptist… you’re more related than you know.

You housed them as they built their place of worship in the 1960s. They built a sanctuary on Bronson Street. Sherman Bronson was the name of the man who died bringing your bell to you.

This is who you are. This is who you’ve always been. While the world is wild and uncultivated, and dividing and anxiety is high… Remember your identity.  There’s strength in it. Stronger than Samson ever was. Never lose sight of it.

Works Cited

[1]  George Saunders, Congratulations, by the way: Some Thoughts on Kindness. Audiobook.

[2] “Nazirite” Eerdmans Dictionary of the Bible (Eerdman’s Publishing Company, Grand Rapids, MI;2000) Page 951.

[3] https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/the-story-of-samson/

[4] Judges 14

[5] Saw this on Facebook this past week. I related more than I’m comfortable admitting. And only those who read the footnotes will know.

[6] George Saunders, Congratulations, by the way: Some Thoughts on Kindness. Audiobook.

[7] Thanks, Bob Fenn.