So Joab went to the king and told him this. Then the king summoned Absalom, and he came in and bowed down with his face to the ground before the king. And the king kissed Absalom.
2 Samuel 14:33 (NIV)

Kisses are telling.

A kiss may be the quintessential act of human intimacy. Yet, through history and and art it becomes a powerful device for communicating a whole host of human emotions and realities…

Shakespeare uses Romeo and Juliet’s first kiss to communicate the hope, passion, desire, and possibilities. Then uses their final kiss as tragedy, loss, and despair.

When Michael Corleone kisses his brother Fredo on the ballroom floor in Cuba, it is the kiss of death – filled with raging vengeance at his brother’s betrayal.

A kiss awakens Sleeping Beauty, a nod to life, hope, and resurrection.

When Rick and Ilsa kiss in Casablanca is it true requieted love that has been recaptured, or merely a moment of genuine passion that surrenders to larger realities? It’s the ambiguity that makes it a classic, and keeps us debating.

Gustav Klimt’s painting The Kiss is one of the most stunning artworks in history. Not merely romance. Union. Beauty. Transcendence. Almost sacred intimacy.

The Great Story itself is filled with fateful kisses…

Judas famously betrays Jesus with a kiss.

Joseph kisses his brothers at their reunion, after those brothers beat him, left him for dead, and then sold him into a life of slavery. Kisses of forgiveness and reconciliation.

When Naomi kisses Orpah and Ruth goodbye, it is filled with grief, release, and blessing.

David and Jonathan’s kiss of friendship is especially an interesting contrast with today’s chapter. Their kiss is that of covenant, friendship, sacrifice, and farewell.

Today’s chapter is fascinating. It’s squeezed between Absalom’s murderous vengeance on his brother Amnon in yesterday’s chapter, and what will become a larger rebellious conspiracy against his father that begins in tomorrow’s chapter.

Three years have passed since Absalom murdered his half-brother Amnon and fled to his grandfather’s kingdom of Geshur. David misses Absalom terribly. But David also — once again — does nothing. David refuses to deal with him.

Everyone lives in limbo.

Joab finally decides someone has to force the issue. Ironically, David—the great judge of Israel—has become incapable of judging his own family.

Joab stages an elborate ruse to convince David to bring Absalom home from exile. It is not unlike the prophet Nathan’s earlier story of the man with a ewe lamb that trapped David into revealing his own blind spot with Bathsheba and Uriah. It’s almost painful how often David can clearly see justice for others while remaining blind to himself and his own family.

David agrees. Absalom comes home. Except…David refuses to see him. This is one of Scripture’s saddest sentences: “Let him go to his own house; he must not see my face.”

Absalom is physically present, but remains emotionally exiled for two full years. Now it’s Absalom who presses the issue with his benefactor Joab to make the peace between father and son. David finally meets with Absalom.

They kiss.

But this kiss is empty. There is no confession. There is no admission of wrong-doing. There are no words of amends. There is no working out of the the mistakes that led to Tamar’s rape, Amnon’s murder, or Absalom’s exile.

There’s just a meaningless kiss.

Along my life journey I have observed and experienced so many moments that echo a meaningless kiss. Husband and wife quietly live under the same roof but haven’t truly spoken from the heart in years, nor address the issues that have opened a chasm between. Siblings exchange polite holiday greetings while carrying decades-old wounds. Church members share communion while avoiding certain individuals across the sanctuary. People pretend they’ve made peace simply because enough water has flowed underneath the bridge.

Time has a way of covering wounds like fallen leaves cover a forest trail. From a distance, the ground looks smooth. But beneath the leaves, the roots still wait to trip the unsuspecting wayfarer.

David and Absalom are the embodiment of that kind of false peace. They occupy the same city. Eventually they even meet face to face. David kisses his son. On the surface it appears to be reconciliation. But reconciliation is not a ceremony. It is not proximity. It is not the absence of conflict. It is the slow, courageous work of:

Truth being spoken
Repentance being offered
Forgiveness being extended
Trust being rebuilt
Love being chosen again.

Without these necessary ingredients, silence simply becomes another form of exile.

It stuck me as I sat with these things in the quiet this morning that Jesus offers something far richer than what David manages here. Through Jesus, God doesn’t merely invite me back into the neighborhood. He brings me fully into His presence. He doesn’t simply tolerate me in the same house—He calls me son, adopts me as a full co-heir with Christ, seats me at His table, and begins the lifelong work of making our relationship eternally whole.

And, it’s not lost on me that Paul and Peter repeatedly end their letters by encouraging believers to greet one another with a holy kiss. While we summarily ignore this invitation in reality, I find that it still holds metaphorical meaning that speaks to my relationship with others. It invites me to ask where I’ve mistaken nearness for reconciliation, and where God might be inviting me beyond polite coexistence into the costly, beautiful work of genuine peace – a holy kiss.

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