On
Friday I had planned on spending the day putting together thoughts for today’s
sermon when I had an unexpected cat-sickness-related detour to Grand Forks that took most
of the day. Stranded in the “big city” with no computer, Bible, or anything
with which to actually “work” on a sermon, I made my way to Target to pick up a
notebook, a pen, and also a Bible. When it came time to find the Bible I
meandered into the book section of the Target store, which feels like it
shrinks every time I’m there, slowly being eaten away, as it is, by the
electronics. Today you can practically buy more different versions of Grand Theft Auto than you can books of
any title from a given Target store—I’m only slightly exaggerating.
So,
when I found myself in the two aisles of books at Target I was at least
thankful that they did have Bibles—two of them; both King James versions, of
course—but next to these a couple of other books caught my eye. First was a
book called Jesus>Heaven that I
was vaguely familiar with but thought it might be mildly appropriate for Sunday
sermon material, and then there was another book by Malcolm Gladwell that had
very little to do with religion but, I can only assume because Target doesn’t
actually care where they shelve books, it was placed right next to these other
religious titles with its own title of David
and Goliath. The subtitle reads: Underdogs, Misfits, and the Art of
Battling Giants. OK, I thought, I’ve got what I need. Which was a funny
thought because I honestly didn’t even realize at first that this David of
David-and-Goliath-fame is the same David from today’s reading. There is such a
stark contrast between the David of youth and the adult David that you too can
be largely excused if you don’t remember at first that this David who looked
down on Bathsheba was the David who slew a giant. So when I left Target I did
so with a notebook, a pen, a book that only vaguely had anything to do with
religion, and no Bible, but I had this realization that the David story was
maybe exactly what I needed.
It
was a reminder of who David was that I needed in order to get to the David we see
in this reading today. I needed to remember that this King David who acts
reprehensibly, without scruples or any kind of remorse, was once the
underdog—was once the model of purity and devotion to God.
I
had to check myself and ask honestly, “What does this mean?” What do we do with
this David. And that was a perfect launching pad for today’s sermon.
In
David and Goliath, Malcolm Gladwell
claims that David would have known the formal practices of duels, but because
he was the underdog and had no hope of winning on conventional terms he had to
fight unconventionally—or at least with a method that bucked tradition. At
first, I didn’t really like the theological implications of Gladwell’s point. I
kind of like to imagine a God who makes something out of nothing—who defeats
giants with little puny things—rather than a God who relies on the smarts of a
shepherd, would-be-king, cheating traditional methods of war. I like to imagine
that God directed that stone apart from David’s skills; not that, as Gladwell claims,
David should have been considered the favorite in this encounter. He claims
that Goliath didn’t have a chance—not because of God—but because David was
using a preferable, though non-traditional, method. Like I said, I didn’t much
care for this interpretation until I started to think about what it says about
David on the whole. I mean, what happened to this boy David by the time he was
sitting in his kingdom hall looking down on Bathsheba? Where was this model of
faithfulness when he ordered Uriah off to a battle from which he knew he would
not return?
I
like to make the boy David into this perfect vessel through which God worked
while treating the older David as this broken, pitiable adult. It’s convenient,
but I suppose that it’s probably not true. The difference between this younger
David and his older self, who is now king over Israel, is that he is no longer
underdog to anybody. There is no reason for him to be creative—no reason to be
so desperate as to defy tradition. So when he sees Bathsheba bathing on the
roof there is no question that he can have what he wants—he is, after all, the
law of the land.
Have
you ever stopped to wonder why God revels in underdogs?
I
wonder if it isn’t because underdogs have no preconceived notion of their own
power. They don’t assume they can have what they want. They are aware of their
inadequacy and press on nonetheless, having no time to rest on their laurels.
It takes an underdog to resist conventional notions of power, because only an
underdog will risk the ridicule and abuse that come along with making those in
power uncomfortable. Underdogs spit in the face of the status quo, scaring
people, making them angered and confused. This is what happens with Goliath.
When David came at him with a stick rather than a sword he tried ridiculing and
he tried threatening. David was not dissuaded. He knew he couldn’t defeat
Goliath on his terms. He had a God on his side, yes, and he had something
else—a freedom not to follow conventions. David ran up to Goliath and killed
him before any of the rules of the game could be observed.
The
elder David, looking down on Bathsheba and sending Uriah off to war, becomes
Goliath. He is handicapped by the very power he has gained. This is precisely the
reason why God scoffs at the Israelites’ demands for a king in the first place.
The Israelites misinterpreted the David and Goliath encounter: it wasn’t
showing them that David should be king; it was showing them that a political,
militaristic king was folly. Israel
needed the only king whose power was creative, self-sacrificial, loving, and,
thus, completely backwards: they needed God. The story of David is a story of a
human being thrust into a role no human being can live up to. He is not excused
for his actions; he is punished for them; and you can argue (perhaps rightly)
that he deserved worse. But it was always going to be this way. It’s a story
lived out every day we turn on the news.
A
few examples: I can’t believe that
so-and-so celebrity is doing drugs, having an affair, and acting in public like
a complete buffoon. Isn’t it terrible how this-or-that pro athlete got
arrested, or did that reprehensible thing? If I had that kind of money and fame I would never do a thing like
that! These are the thoughts we have looking at the news and the magazines
in the checkout aisle at the store. I can’t tell you how often I hear people
talk about how it’s all so terrible out there in that world—it’s all so full of
rotten people—which is the impression you get. The David and Goliath stories
are crafted as if they are bright spots in an otherwise murky, rotten, terrible
world—as if they are the exception to the rule. But, looking at David’s life,
and the wisdom of the prophets, Samuel and Nathan, who come to him in time of
need, we should open our eyes to what’s really going on here, and, thus, the
reality of our own world today. It’s not that David and Goliath is the
exception; it’s the rule. And our problem is not that we have no power to
change the world, but that we assume our only way to make the world better is
to carve for ourselves a bigger slice of the power pie.
So we listen to
the tabloids and we look for heroes amongst pro athletes and celebrities. If only we could find the right heroes, elect the right leaders. We argue about
issues as if they are always black-and-white, blue-and-red, as if political
parties have the solutions to the world’s problems. We give in to the same
utterly banal platitudes about the world, saying it’s hopeless and
disease-ridden and war-torn and full of evil people, and, worst of all, we act
as if the only way we can change any of that is to carve out a little power for
ourselves; to play, in short, by the same rules of the game as those tyrants we
despise. We try to defeat Goliath by beefing up. We try to overcome the
temptation of Bathsheba by abstaining. We try to be better people, and we can’t
understand why the world doesn’t think and act more like us. If only they did…
if only the world wasn’t full of so many stupid people…
The world isn’t
full of stupid people. It’s full of people who believe that Goliath was strong,
that King David could get what he wanted, and that Uriah the Hittite was
powerless, anonymous, and to be pitied. God says, “No. You’ve got it all
backwards.” And to prove it I’ll do the worst thing imaginable: I’ll take the
child born out of this terrible abuse of power. Worse than taking David’s life,
he takes his newborn son. We don’t much care for this from our God, so we tend
to read past it quickly and hope nobody notices, but it is a terrible testimony
about power. In the New Testament, Jesus asks, Who is really the greatest? The children. The vulnerable. The
Uriahs of the world. The ones who are killed without a voice to narrate.
“It is to such as
these that are given the kingdom,” says Jesus. True underdogs. Death is worst
for the parents—for David, for Bathsheba. Uriah is gone, the child is gone.
David prays and prays and prays, but it’s all for naught. This is a story to
make us question our deepest desires. What
are we after? What kind of power do we value? Do we believe that death is the
end? And, if not, then why do we feel sorry for Uriah? He’s the only one
above reproach—the true underdog—the only character of virtue to be found. He’s
the poor man from Nathan’s parable. He’s the one to whom the kingdom that Jesus
refers to was given. We are to become like Uriah, to follow even to our deaths,
and to do so because ours is a God of underdogs, and we never know when kings
might bow, realizing the futility of their power. There is no guarantee we
won’t die as a result of the abuse of power by somebody above our pay grade. So
be it. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer said, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and
die.” Strange as it may seem, that is gospel. That is good
news. Don’t let anybody tell you any different.
No comments:
Post a Comment