When David's time to die drew near, he charged his son Solomon, saying: 'I am about to go the way of all the earth. Be strong, be courageous, and keep the charge of the Lord your God, walking in his ways and keeping his statutes, his commandments, his ordinances, and his testimonies, as it is written in the law of Moses, so that you may prosper in all that you do and wherever you turn.

I Kings 2:1-3

As you know, today is Father's Day. Now, if you were here on Mother's Day, you may recall that we focused much of the service that day on mothers and motherhood. On what some of the biblical stories about mothers have to tell us, and how that material relates to the experience of being a mother, or not being one, or being raised by one.

So I felt it was only fair to do the same today for fathers. But I quickly realized that might be a little challenging. Apart from Jesus' astonishing willingness to characterize God as his Father, the biblical account of the relationship between fathers and sons is mixed at best. Abraham, for example, seems all too willing to kill his son Isaac. In the very next generation, Jacob tricks his father Isaac out of his brother's birthright, which doesn't go over well at all with anyone.

And those are just two of the more famous examples of father/son shenanigans in the Bible. In fact, they're tame in comparison to the scheming and betrayal you'll find in some other biblical stories.

So when I looked up the lexionary text for today and discovered that it was centered on this straightforward story of the transition from David's reign over Israel to Solomon's reign, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Except that this sigh was premature. First, I quickly discovered that I had misread the lectionary text. The actual text for the day is I Kings 21 :1--10, not 2 :1--10. (Of course in keeping with the lectionary's sometimes mysterious logic, I Kings 21 has nothing to do with fathers or fatherhood.)

And second, I also discovered that this is not such a straightforward story after all. But I decided to stick with my mistake, as I thought this was an optimal text for today. One that would allow us to helpfully explore, from a theological point of view, some of the issues that make fatherhood, and our relationship with our fathers, so meaningful on the one hand, and sometimes so difficult on the other.

For example, when I say "father" what do you think of? What words come to mind? "Hero" perhaps? "Protector" maybe? "Provider"? "Strong"? What about "available" or "loving"?

I hope that some of those words came to your mind. But I wonder if some other words also came to mind. How about "absent"? Or "controlling"? "Workaholic", maybe. Or "alcoholic". For some, maybe, sadly, even "abuser" may come to mind.

The truth is that the relationship between fathers and their children, both sons and daughters, can be extremely complicated, a mixed bag of emotion and experience.

So, I sort of rubbed my hands in eager expectation as to where this text might lead us, as to the kinds of questions it might open up, or insights it might provide into the subject of fatherhood.

I thought it might help all of us love our fathers a little more, or maybe at least understand them a little better, and perhaps even forgive them if our relationship with them has been difficult.

So I eagerly tromped off to the library to grab my trusted New Interpreters' Commentary to begin my background research. Given all those expectations I just described, you can thus perhaps imagine my chagrin when I opened to this section and read the following words: "This text 'will not preach'" (New Interpreter's Bible Commentary, Vol. III, pg. 35).

I nearly passed out. What was I going to do? This passage was not the stated text for today, so I could not rely on any of the lectionary-based resources I typically rely on for background material, so I began to feel a little desperate.

I read a little further, though, and discovered that the commentary meant that it would not preach in a very specific way. Given the context both before and after this passage it would be difficult to use this text for a sermon centered around ethical instruction.

For the extended story of Solomon's rise to the throne, of which today's story is the culminating chapter, is filled with actions that most of us deem to be deplorable. As the commentary puts it, "Here we see examples of human cunning, vindictiveness, pettiness, insecurity and sheer dishonesty."

Now, a hard-bitten cynic might say, well, doesn't all of that apply to church life? Certainly those characteristics apply to human life. And yes, those same attributes do sometimes characterize the relationships between fathers and sons in particular. So maybe the text will preach after all.

But I trust there is a better and more redemptive reason this will preach, one that does not have to do with ethics necessarily, or even with theology as such, but that does have to do with the emotional transactions between fathers and the children they produce, which is to say all of us.

I've drawn the title for this sermon, Operating Instructions , from Anne Lamott's wonderful book about her first year as a parent. Although Ms. Lamott is obviously not a father, the title still seemed apt because here David gives Solomon his operating instructions for how to be a successful king.

And it turns out all Solomon has to do, essentially, is be good: Be strong, be courageous, and keep the charge of the Lord your God, walking in his ways and keeping his statutes, his commandments, his ordinances, and his testimonies, as it is written in the law of Moses, so that you may prosper in all that you do and wherever you turn.

There is a theological term for what's going on in this charge from father to son. This idea that if we are faithful to God, then God will be faithful to us actually has a name. Scholars call it Deuteronomistic theology. It's rooted in God's promise to Moses in Deuteronomy - if you walk in God's ways, it shall go well with you; and if you do not, then you'd better take cover.

What's interesting about David's charge is that it's not the promise that God gave to David. Upon his ascension to the throne, God's promise to David was unilateral and unconditional, a promise to bless David and his heirs come what may.

Maybe life roughed David up a bit. Maybe he thought God's promise to him was a one-lifetime only deal. Maybe he was simply worried about his son and wanted to protect him.

Whatever the reason, David stops short of promising Solomon that he'll enjoy God's unconditional favor. So he gives him the best advice and best council he can; he gives him operating instructions that are intended to guide him to his destiny: Be faith to God, and God will be faithful to you.

So that's the theological side. The practical side is that it's just this kind of transaction that can make it so difficult to be a father, and so difficult to have a father.

For example, you've lived you're whole life and you've learned some stuff, and now your first-born child is about to leave home. You've been wounded by life and tricked a few times. You've made some bad choices and you've made some good choices, had some successes and some failures.

You've eaten too many cholesterol-rich foods and too few vegetables. You've invested in some stocks that went south, and you've invested in a couple that have paid or will pay for your kids' tuition at Davidson or WW or UNC.

And you want to pass on all these lessons you've learned. You want to offer your progeny your own set of operating instructions.

And so you do. And sometimes they're right on target, as David's instructions were to Solomon - the father's counsel grounded in a profound understanding of his son's calling.

But sometimes those instructions aren't so well informed. Sometimes they're not remotely relevant to who your child was born to be. And that's when things can get tricky.

My own father died some five years ago. One day, shortly after he and my mom had moved to a wonderful retirement community a little like Givens Estates, he fell in his bedroom for no apparent reason. And he never really got up again. His health steadily declined and he eventually died several months later of pneumonia.

I had the great honor of helping to shepherd him through the final stages of his life. The congregation and staff at Grace Covenant were very generous in allowing me to fly back to SD every time his health took a dip. And going back to be with him through that journey was one of the hardest and best experiences of my life.

My dad was a WWII veteran and so when he died he was buried in the Black Hills national cemetery, about 30 minutes from where my mom now lives. On the day he was buried, when those 21 guns fired their salute and the presiding officer offered my mother a United States flag in honor of my dad, and on behalf of a grateful nation, my heart swelled with pride and broke with grief. And I realized that I loved my dad deeply and unconditionally.

But it wasn't always so. You see, the operating instructions he gave me were not quite so insightful as David's were to Solomon.

Dad wanted me to take auto mechanics in high school even though it conflicted with several classes I needed to take in order to get into college. He thought my life experience was going to be like his, and that learning how to fix my own car was an essential life skill.

Meanwhile, I wanted him to see me, and to know me for who I was and who God made me to be. I was glad he taught me a little about cars, but I would have paid anything to have had a dad who could have taught me how to navigate my first year of college, who could have taught me how to handle the pressure from the frat boys and stay true to my principles and to always comport myself with class and savvy as I prepared for my career.

But that was not the father I had. The operating instructions he gave me were more relevant to his life than they were to mine. So it felt like my dad never really did know me. Toward the end I knew he was proud of a few things I'd done; I knew this because he would tell other people about them. But he really didn't understand these things, so he couldn't talk to me about them because he didn't know how to.

So like so many sons, and daughters, too, for that matter, I was angry with my dad for a long time for not giving me what I thought I needed, for not seeing and understanding me for who I was.

But here's the merciful good news. I finally saw him for who he was. My sacraments were bread and wine, and he never really understood those. But I finally understood that his sacraments were $20 bills and full tanks of gas. Invariably as I got ready to return to college after the Christmas break he would first take my car and fill it with gas. And then afterward he would always ask me, "How you fixed for money?" I finally figured out that was his way of saying, I love you, son, I just don't know how to say it any other way.

I hope you had a father like David, one who saw you for who you are. One who laid his hands on your head and blessed you with a father's blessing. Who gave you operating instructions that were full of theological insight and divine promises.

But my guess is you may have had a father more like mine. Or you may even be a father like mine was--imperfect and flawed, one who did not see very clearly who I was but who loved me anyway.

If you had that kind of father, I hope you'll forgive him. I hope you'll come to appreciate that he was probably doing the best he could.

And if you are that father, if like so many men you're not terribly close to your kids, I hope that you'll consider something a little different. Next time, instead of asking, "How you fixed for money?" - or whatever your version of that question is - I hope you'll wind up all your courage and actually say to your son or your daughter, "I love you very much" right out loud.

And then I hope you'll place your hands on their heads and say the words every child desperately wants to hear: "I give you my blessing this day and always."

Amen