Tenderness

“Even they sent, and took Jeremiah out of the court of the prison, and committed him unto Gedaliah the son of Ahikam the son of Shaphan, that he should carry him home: so he dwelt among the people.” (Jer 39:14 AV)

I couldn’t help but see the tenderness in this passage.  Jeremiah, having suffered tremendously for his faithfulness to the word of God, was treated tenderly by Ahikam when the Chaldeans arrived.  The man of God was cast into prison.  Out of spite, he was cast into the dungeon.  Yes, there is a vast difference.  A prison, although scant, does have amenities.  A dungeon is a glorified pit where sewage often flowed through.  Out of spite, the princes of Judah threw the prophet into a toilet bowl to rot out the rest of his life.  Weakened by his condition, Ahikam carried Jeremiah back to his home.  Either Ahikam’s home or Jeremiah’s home.  My mind's eye went to what that might have looked like.  Pulled up from the pit by the filthiest of rage, Jeremiah was placed on a cot or cart.  Ahikam gently carried or drove the faithful prophet to the comfort of a bed.  No doubt, Jeremiah was given a bath, a fresh set of clothes, and some proper food to eat.  I was moved by the tenderness of Ahikam.  It took significant risk for him to do so.  Not a friend of the Jewish people nor an ally of the Chaldeans, Ahikam decided the best friend he could make would be the man of God.

One of my first introductions to southern dialect involved the word ‘carry’.  Where I am from, that word has a specific meaning.  It means to lift up and bear a burden from one place to another.  When we carry something, we bear the weight of it.  We lift it off the ground.  We place it on our shoulders.  We transport it from one place to another.  However, in the south where I served, the word can have a different meaning.  We had an older fella who gave up his driver’s license.  He suffered from COPD and related blackouts.  It was not safe for him to drive anywhere.  His wife usually took him to appointments.  One day, while visiting him, he stated he needed to get to a future appointment and there was no one to carry him there.  He wondered if I was free.  Here is a bit of humor.  Using my understanding of the word carry, I was puzzled.  Why wouldn’t a car ride be much easier?  When we got there, a wheelchair would work just fine.  Why did I need to carry him anywhere?  I knew he was well enough to walk, so why couldn’t he get himself into my car?  All of these thoughts were running through my mind.  But Mamma didn’t raise no fool.  I knew if I kept silent long enough, the meaning of his request would come out.  Sure enough.  ‘Carry’ comes from carriage.  He needed a ride.  A lift.  He needed someone to transport him from home to his appointment.  The word ‘carry’ when speaking of a person is a bit more archaic and intimate.

Caring is in short supply.  Our generation has been programmed to live separate and apart.  COVID didn’t cause this.  We were well on our way to living a solitary life.  Our lives are reduced to a little rectangular object no bigger than our hand.  Our conversations are not books.  They are not chapters.  They are not even paragraphs.  Our communication is a sentence.  In the near future, it will only consist of a cartoon character’s face.  We cannot empathize.  We cannot feel.  We cannot take initiative to help a lending hand.  If we saw someone cast into a pit, what kind of help would we render?  We are too afraid of lawsuits or threats.  We have somewhere to be.  Our resources are our own, and if another has a greater need, he or she will just have to figure it out.  Ahikam took pity on the man of God.  He saw someone who needed help and realized he was in the position to render that help.  Ahikam treated the man of God with the respect due his office.  He acted because he cared.  What really touched my heart was the emotional commitment Ahikam rendered.  It wasn’t merely a rope made of old material.  It wasn’t merely a cart or cot on which to ride.  Ahikam saw the prophet and cared.  How sweet.  How convicting!