Samuel took a vial of oil and poured it on his head, and kissed him; he said, "The LORD has anointed you ruler over his people Israel. You shall reign over the people of the LORD and you will save them from the hand of their enemies all around. Now this shall be the sign to you that the LORD has anointed you ruler over his heritage.
1 Samuel 10:1
In ancient Israel when a king was selected, as part of his coronation, he was anointed by pouring oil over his head representing the fact that he was the Lord’s anointed for a particular ministry, that of leading God’s people. Samuel anointed Saul as the first king of Israel to be that leader of God’s people as their king. The same occurred with David and all subsequent kings of Israel from that time on.
In Holy Baptism we too are anointed for a particular ministry, that of serving God and making disciples; we too are God’s anointed. However, Messiah is the Hebrew word for “God’s anointed;” the equivalent Greek word is Christ. Now we are not THE Messiah or THE Christ, but we are God’s anointed for ministry in this world.
When I was very young I didn’t really understand the concept of God’s anointed, or even what it meant to be anointed with oil. There are many things you do in life that seem prophetic and point to things later in life. I suppose that being a pastor now I could make a reach that I was anointing myself for later ministry, but that reach is probably a bit too far. More often than not when a three-year-old is involved it is not very prophetic, but simply boiled down to, “he’s three.”
Life on a farm and the rest of the world seem to have nothing in common. Farm life is very simple, and simple methods are maintained. For much of my life, I remember that the road on which the family farm sits was a dusty, dry, dirt road. To this day, the water on that family farm comes from a private well. It is a relaxing life on that farm, with no pretension or desire for it, and certainly no equal. Until recently, most rooms were heated by fireplaces or wood burning stoves. It is not a large house, but it was able to house my grandparents and five children. It is not uncommon now that you will find the remaining members of that family still gathered around the kitchen table, with children, grandchildren, and a growing list of great-grandchildren testing the loving flexibility of those walls.
Just because it is a magical place does not imply that that no work occurred there; far from it. Life on that farm meant hard work and lots of it. Nothing was wasted. Very little was thrown away. What little trash that remained was burned in a barrel beside the garden then the ashes tilled into the garden. Kitchen waste was either given to the dogs and cats or used to compost the garden. Even the oil from the lawn mowers and tractors was reused.
Although the EPA would probably not approve, nothing associated with that household ever truly went to waste. In those days it was quite common to take the spent oil and sprinkle it on the driveway and roadway to keep dust down, since it was not yet paved. This was done in somewhat of a feeble effort to reduce the amount of dust permeating the house, requiring daily dusting of nearly every surface in the house. What exacerbated the situation in that house was the fact that a sawmill also was on that road and daily logging and lumber trucks made their way up and down the road, raising dust in biblical proportions.
Papaw never did get very far beyond keeping his life and needs very simple. He never even saw the need for fancy oil drain pans. Instead he used old paint cans, over and over again. Now to a three- year-old, this is simply another toy, as is everything encountered at that age.
After the oil was drained into the paint cans he would leave them sitting in the car shed (some people may refer to this as a garage, but to us it is the car shed) until he was ready to use it. The oil itself had the consistency of blackstrap molasses, and easily had as much as 10,000 miles or more on it by the time he would change it. Papaw was frugal even in his changing of the oil, and did not want to do it too often.
Since I was the first grandchild, nothing had been put up yet, and who would have ever thought that I would even be interested in a paint can of oil. Besides, a gallon can of spent oil weighs about 10 pounds, fully 1/3 of my weight at the time. Even if I was interested in it, I wasn’t likely to be able to move it. Nevertheless, I was interested and I could move it. Not only could I move it, but I could also lift it.
It is odd what you remember through the passage of time, but I still remember, to this day, the pungent, acrid, sulfurous smell of that used oil, mixing with the unmistakable scent of dry, dusty earth. Despite the accuracy and detail of my memory, I am still not sure what possessed me to take the next action I did. I can’t fathom the logic in it, or even how I could have been curious about it in this way. I certainly didn’t know what oil was, nor did I have any concept of just how dirty it was. To me it was simply the black stuff in the cans. It felt kind of gooey and sticky. Maybe even the same consistency as the gooey and sticky stuff that Mommy would put on my head when I had a bath. Plus, once you have a little on your chubby little fingers after putting your hand down in it, what the heck it could easily do the same now as what Mommy would do, and not even need your bath later.
Yes that’s right; I upended the entire can of oil on my head. I can still remember the slime of it running down over my head and body. This was absolutely hilarious, and I began to laugh hysterically. I giggled and laughed and went to find Mommy. I am sure at that point I could only be described as something that resembled Brer Rabbit’s tar baby. However, Mommy did not see the humor in it that I did.
In the middle of running about and destroying some good clothes, my mother stripped me naked in the yard and took the garden hose to me; that just made it even better. I loved playing in the water, and I guess Mommy did too! I played and splashed, and danced around naked in the yard. Life should always be that good. Can’t you just imagine all of us today, covered in motor oil and running through the sprinkler in the backyard naked; you really can’t go back to being three again. Just as all this was going on, the new pastor pulled up in the driveway to make his first visit to our quaint family farm.
The tradition, at that time, was when a new pastor arrived he would drive around to each of the parishioners’ homes to visit his new congregation. It would be impossible to know exactly what was going through the new pastor’s mind as he watched a frantic mother, chasing a naked boy covered in oil with a garden hose, and a grandmother with a towel in her hands laughing hysterically. Of all the classes that I took in seminary myself I can honestly say that none of them addressed what to say or do on your first encounter with a family and find a mother chasing a naked boy covered in motor oil with a garden hose. What can you possibly say at a point like that other than, “Hi, I’m Pastor Brown, your new pastor.” However, this scene would certainly leave an indelible mark on a person; something that no seminary ever really prepares a pastor for.
Mamaw was a tall slender woman, and there was never any doubt in my mind that she thoroughly loved me. She laughed and laughed as I danced around while Mommy sprayed me with the garden hose. Then she met me on the steps to the back porch with a nice warm towel when Mommy was done. She beckoned to the pastor to join us inside for a cup of coffee and a good laugh, as she wrapped the towel around me with her loving arms. She laughed with me a bit, and then took me for a nice warm bath. Life should always be that good.
1 Samuel 10:1
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Samuel anoints Saul Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld 1851-60 Engraving |
In ancient Israel when a king was selected, as part of his coronation, he was anointed by pouring oil over his head representing the fact that he was the Lord’s anointed for a particular ministry, that of leading God’s people. Samuel anointed Saul as the first king of Israel to be that leader of God’s people as their king. The same occurred with David and all subsequent kings of Israel from that time on.
In Holy Baptism we too are anointed for a particular ministry, that of serving God and making disciples; we too are God’s anointed. However, Messiah is the Hebrew word for “God’s anointed;” the equivalent Greek word is Christ. Now we are not THE Messiah or THE Christ, but we are God’s anointed for ministry in this world.
When I was very young I didn’t really understand the concept of God’s anointed, or even what it meant to be anointed with oil. There are many things you do in life that seem prophetic and point to things later in life. I suppose that being a pastor now I could make a reach that I was anointing myself for later ministry, but that reach is probably a bit too far. More often than not when a three-year-old is involved it is not very prophetic, but simply boiled down to, “he’s three.”
Life on a farm and the rest of the world seem to have nothing in common. Farm life is very simple, and simple methods are maintained. For much of my life, I remember that the road on which the family farm sits was a dusty, dry, dirt road. To this day, the water on that family farm comes from a private well. It is a relaxing life on that farm, with no pretension or desire for it, and certainly no equal. Until recently, most rooms were heated by fireplaces or wood burning stoves. It is not a large house, but it was able to house my grandparents and five children. It is not uncommon now that you will find the remaining members of that family still gathered around the kitchen table, with children, grandchildren, and a growing list of great-grandchildren testing the loving flexibility of those walls.
Just because it is a magical place does not imply that that no work occurred there; far from it. Life on that farm meant hard work and lots of it. Nothing was wasted. Very little was thrown away. What little trash that remained was burned in a barrel beside the garden then the ashes tilled into the garden. Kitchen waste was either given to the dogs and cats or used to compost the garden. Even the oil from the lawn mowers and tractors was reused.
Although the EPA would probably not approve, nothing associated with that household ever truly went to waste. In those days it was quite common to take the spent oil and sprinkle it on the driveway and roadway to keep dust down, since it was not yet paved. This was done in somewhat of a feeble effort to reduce the amount of dust permeating the house, requiring daily dusting of nearly every surface in the house. What exacerbated the situation in that house was the fact that a sawmill also was on that road and daily logging and lumber trucks made their way up and down the road, raising dust in biblical proportions.
Papaw never did get very far beyond keeping his life and needs very simple. He never even saw the need for fancy oil drain pans. Instead he used old paint cans, over and over again. Now to a three- year-old, this is simply another toy, as is everything encountered at that age.
After the oil was drained into the paint cans he would leave them sitting in the car shed (some people may refer to this as a garage, but to us it is the car shed) until he was ready to use it. The oil itself had the consistency of blackstrap molasses, and easily had as much as 10,000 miles or more on it by the time he would change it. Papaw was frugal even in his changing of the oil, and did not want to do it too often.
Since I was the first grandchild, nothing had been put up yet, and who would have ever thought that I would even be interested in a paint can of oil. Besides, a gallon can of spent oil weighs about 10 pounds, fully 1/3 of my weight at the time. Even if I was interested in it, I wasn’t likely to be able to move it. Nevertheless, I was interested and I could move it. Not only could I move it, but I could also lift it.
It is odd what you remember through the passage of time, but I still remember, to this day, the pungent, acrid, sulfurous smell of that used oil, mixing with the unmistakable scent of dry, dusty earth. Despite the accuracy and detail of my memory, I am still not sure what possessed me to take the next action I did. I can’t fathom the logic in it, or even how I could have been curious about it in this way. I certainly didn’t know what oil was, nor did I have any concept of just how dirty it was. To me it was simply the black stuff in the cans. It felt kind of gooey and sticky. Maybe even the same consistency as the gooey and sticky stuff that Mommy would put on my head when I had a bath. Plus, once you have a little on your chubby little fingers after putting your hand down in it, what the heck it could easily do the same now as what Mommy would do, and not even need your bath later.
Yes that’s right; I upended the entire can of oil on my head. I can still remember the slime of it running down over my head and body. This was absolutely hilarious, and I began to laugh hysterically. I giggled and laughed and went to find Mommy. I am sure at that point I could only be described as something that resembled Brer Rabbit’s tar baby. However, Mommy did not see the humor in it that I did.
In the middle of running about and destroying some good clothes, my mother stripped me naked in the yard and took the garden hose to me; that just made it even better. I loved playing in the water, and I guess Mommy did too! I played and splashed, and danced around naked in the yard. Life should always be that good. Can’t you just imagine all of us today, covered in motor oil and running through the sprinkler in the backyard naked; you really can’t go back to being three again. Just as all this was going on, the new pastor pulled up in the driveway to make his first visit to our quaint family farm.
The tradition, at that time, was when a new pastor arrived he would drive around to each of the parishioners’ homes to visit his new congregation. It would be impossible to know exactly what was going through the new pastor’s mind as he watched a frantic mother, chasing a naked boy covered in oil with a garden hose, and a grandmother with a towel in her hands laughing hysterically. Of all the classes that I took in seminary myself I can honestly say that none of them addressed what to say or do on your first encounter with a family and find a mother chasing a naked boy covered in motor oil with a garden hose. What can you possibly say at a point like that other than, “Hi, I’m Pastor Brown, your new pastor.” However, this scene would certainly leave an indelible mark on a person; something that no seminary ever really prepares a pastor for.
Mamaw was a tall slender woman, and there was never any doubt in my mind that she thoroughly loved me. She laughed and laughed as I danced around while Mommy sprayed me with the garden hose. Then she met me on the steps to the back porch with a nice warm towel when Mommy was done. She beckoned to the pastor to join us inside for a cup of coffee and a good laugh, as she wrapped the towel around me with her loving arms. She laughed with me a bit, and then took me for a nice warm bath. Life should always be that good.
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