Song of Solomon 5:1-8: a reflection

1I have come into my garden, my sister, my bride. I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey; I have drunk my wine with my milk. Eat, friends! Drink, yes, drink abundantly, beloved. 2I was asleep, but my heart was awake. It is the voice of my beloved who knocks: “Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled; for my head is filled with dew, and my hair with the dampness of the night.” 3I have taken off my robe. Indeed, must I put it on? I have washed my feet. Indeed, must I soil them? 4My beloved thrust his hand in through the latch opening. My heart pounded for him. 5I rose up to open for my beloved. My hands dripped with myrrh, my fingers with liquid myrrh, on the handles of the lock. 6I opened to my beloved; but my beloved left, and had gone away. My heart went out when he spoke. I looked for him, but I didn’t find him. I called him, but he didn’t answer. 7The watchmen who go about the city found me. They beat me. They bruised me. The keepers of the walls took my cloak away from me. 8I adjure you, daughters of Jerusalem, If you find my beloved, that you tell him that I am faint with love.

In this scene from the Song, the beloved comes at night and knocks, calling tenderly, open to me, my love. But the woman hesitates. She is comfortable, already in bed: I have taken off my robe; must I put it on again? I have washed my feet; must I soil them? By the time she finally rises to open the door, her beloved has gone. She searches the streets for him, calls out, and cannot find him. I am faint with love, she says. Christians through the ages have read this as a picture of the soul and God.

Notice the cost of her hesitation. The beloved came near, knocked, called, and she was too comfortable, too slow, to rise at once and open. Her delay was not refusal, just reluctance, a moment of preferring her ease. But by the time she stirred herself, the moment had passed, and now she aches for the presence she was too sluggish to welcome when it came.

There is a searching parallel for our life with God. He draws near, prompts us, knocks, in a stirring during prayer, a nudge toward some good, an invitation to press deeper, and we can be too comfortable to respond right away, meaning to, but slow, reluctant to disturb our ease. And sometimes the sense of his nearness passes while we hesitate, and we find ourselves seeking what we were too slow to open to. Do not be too comfortable to rise when God draws near. When he knocks, open at once. Respond promptly to his approaches, before the moment passes.

Lord, you draw near and knock, and I can be too comfortable, too slow, to rise and open, meaning to respond but reluctant to disturb my ease. Keep me from the sluggishness that misses your visitation. When you knock, prompt me, draw near, help me open at once, and not have to ache afterward for the nearness I was too slow to welcome.