A Listening Heart

This is a sermon I preached yesterday, November 1, 2026 at Holy Shepherd Lutheran Church in Orinda, California. It was All Saints’ Day. We follow the Narrative Lectionary, and the Scripture for the day was 1 Kings 3:4-9 [10-15] 16-28.

Today is All Saints’ Sunday, a day when we remember and give thanks for those who have gone before us. Those who taught us, loved us, challenged us, and helped make us who we are today.

We remember members of our church family whose photographs we’ve hung in honor.

We remember parents and grandparents, teachers and mentors, friends and neighbors—all those whose lives have touched our own.

And as we remember them today, I invite you to think not only about who they were and what they meant to you, but also about the ways their lives continue to shape yours. The things they taught you, the values they passed along, the love they shared, and perhaps even the things you’ve learned to do differently because of them.

That’s part of what we’ll explore in today’s Scripture reading, as we encounter Solomon at the beginning of his reign, carrying both the gifts and the complicated legacy of his father, David – one of the most celebrated figures in all of Scripture.

Some of us remember David as the shepherd boy who defeated Goliath. Others maybe the musician and poet of many of our Psalms. The courageous military leader. The king who united Israel. The man described as being after God’s own heart.

And David really did have remarkable gifts.

But as we heard in last Sunday’s reading of David and Bathsheba, David was also a deeply flawed human being. He abused his power. He took what did not belong to him. He caused tremendous suffering.

David was capable of extraordinary faithfulness and extraordinary failure.

As David’s son, Solomon inherited it all. He received the kingdom, a position of tremendous authority, and a family history that was filled with both blessing and brokenness.

And as Solomon steps into his kingship, he realizes that he has no idea how to lead God’s people. So when God appears to Solomon in a dream and says, “Ask what I should give you,” Solomon asks for a listening heart.

It’s often translated as an understanding mind, but the Hebrew expression, more literally, means a heart that hears. He wants to be able to know what is good and what is harmful.
Ultimately, what Solomon is asking for is to be able to hear the wisdom of God.

Solomon, at this point in his life, seems to understand something that his father David, at times, forgot – that being given authority doesn’t mean having all the answers, or always projecting infallibility. And perhaps even more importantly, that having authority doesn’t mean you no longer need to listen.

In fact, the more responsibility we’re given, the more important it becomes to make room for wisdom beyond our own.

There’s a beautiful teaching in the Jewish tradition, attributed to Rabbi Akiva, that says, “A fence to wisdom is silence.”¹ Silence as it’s talked about here isn’t simply the absence of sound. It’s the space we make for something beyond ourselves.

And, in order to hear, we have to quiet our own voices. Our assumptions. Our certainty that we already know what’s right. We have to become willing to listen for a wisdom that isn’t our own.

And that’s what makes Solomon’s prayer so beautiful.

He’s not simply asking God to give him the right answers. He’s asking God to make him capable of hearing, from God.

In the story that follows Solomon’s prayer, we see this wisdom at work. Solomon is able to look beyond the competing claims of the women who come before him and discern something deeper. And through this story, we begin to see that wisdom isn’t simply about determining who’s right and who’s wrong. It’s about seeing what is truly at stake. About looking beyond what is immediately apparent and recognizing what matters most.

God’s wisdom sees beyond the limits of our own understanding. Where we might see competing interests, God sees lives that are bound together. Where we might be concerned with who wins and who loses, God’s wisdom seeks something greater—the flourishing of all.
And that doesn’t mean everyone gets what they want, or that every conflict has an easy resolution. But it does mean that God’s vision is always larger than our own. It is a wisdom that brings life, that makes room for mercy, that recognizes the dignity of every person involved. It’s not simply wisdom that helps us make better decisions for ourselves. It’s wisdom that teaches us to see beyond ourselves, toward the good of the whole.

And Solomon, at least in this moment, recognizes that this kind of wisdom doesn’t come from power or position or even experience. It comes from God.

And yet, as we’ll discover as we see more of Solomon’s life, even someone who begins with a listening heart can eventually stop listening.

If we stopped reading here, we might imagine that Solomon went on to become the wise and faithful king that this beautiful beginning seems to promise.

And in many ways, he accomplished remarkable things.

He built the temple in Jerusalem. His kingdom prospered. His reputation for wisdom spread far beyond Israel.

But as his story continues, we begin to see something troubling.

The king who once asked for a listening heart becomes a king who increasingly seems to listen to his own desires rather than the needs of the people he’s been called to serve. He accumulates enormous wealth—gold, silver, horses, and chariots—symbols of power and prestige that become central to his reign. He builds a magnificent temple for God, but he also spends thirteen years building an elaborate palace for himself, almost twice as long as the seven years it took to build the temple. He conscripts people into forced labor to carry out his ambitious building projects. And he imposes heavy taxes and burdens on the people to sustain the wealth and grandeur of his kingdom.

And while Scripture describes tremendous prosperity during Solomon’s reign, it also reveals the growing cost of that prosperity. After his death, the people plead with his son, Rehoboam, to lighten the heavy yoke Solomon placed upon them.

The king who once asked for wisdom to govern God’s people begins to treat those same people as pawns for building his own greatness.

And eventually, the very gifts that were meant to help him serve others become entangled with his own desire for wealth and power.

In some ways, he repeats the very mistakes of his father.

It doesn’t mean that Solomon and David weren’t great leaders, but their lives show us what happens when we lose sight of the One from whom every good and perfect gift comes.

Scripture doesn’t give us stories simply so that we can admire the people who came before us.
And it certainly doesn’t give them to us so that we can imagine that faithful people never make mistakes.

In fact, one of the things I appreciate most about the Bible is that it tells the truth about who people are. Again and again, we encounter people whose lives are filled with courage and fear, faithfulness and failure, generosity and selfishness. People who encounter God and are transformed, and who still manage to get things terribly wrong.

People who are a lot like us.

And that’s part of the gift of All Saints Sunday.

We don’t gather today to remember perfect people.

We gather to remember people who were loved by God. People whose lives mattered – whom through God’s love was made concrete in this world. And people who, like us, are always in need of grace.

Because sainthood, in our Lutheran understanding, isn’t a reward for having lived an exceptional life.

We’re saints because we belong to the family of God. God created us in God’s image and claimed us in the waters of Baptism and, by the power of the Spirit of Jesus Christ, we have responded with a yes to God.

Martin Luther described Christians as simultaneously saint and sinner. And this gives us a balanced way to remember those who have gone before us.

We don’t have to pretend that their lives were perfect in order to honor them. We can give thanks for the love they shared and still acknowledge the ways they fell short. We can celebrate what they taught us and recognize the things we may need to unlearn, carrying forward what was life-giving and, with God’s help, choosing not to repeat what caused harm.

And perhaps we can even extend that same grace to ourselves. Because someday, we too will be among those who are remembered. And I imagine that those who come after us will inherit some wonderful things from us. But they’ll probably inherit some things they’ll need to work through, too.

And this is not a reason for despair. It’s a reason for humility. It’s a reminder that we have to keep asking God for wisdom.

Because one of the most important things Solomon’s story teaches us is that wisdom isn’t something we receive once and then possess forever. Wisdom is something we must continually seek.

Solomon’s prayer is so memorable because, he understands that what he needs most isn’t more power. But the wisdom to use whatever power he’s been given in service to others.

And may our prayer be the same, that we are capable of hearing something beyond his own voice. Not simply, “God, help me make the right decision.” But, “God, help me listen.”
Help me hear what I might otherwise dismiss, to recognize the things I don’t yet understand.
Help me recognize when the gifts you’ve entrusted to me have become more about serving myself than serving others. And when I’ve lost my way, lead me back.

Because the good news in this story isn’t that Solomon asked for wisdom and then lived a perfect life.

He didn’t.

The good news is that God was willing and ready to give him what he needed.

And that same God is here for us today, ready and willing to give us the wisdom we need. We need only ask.

Amen.