June 21, 2009
I Samuel 17:1-49
The only thing necessary for evil to win is for good men to do nothing.
So, David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and a stone. And they all lived happily ever after, the editor might have added, placing this powerful and epic tale squarely in that corner of our hearts reserved for the heroic myths of our childhood… it’s Dorothy and the Wicked Witch of the West, Frodo and Sam and the Ring of Power, Harry Potter and he-who-must-not-be-named, Han Solo and the Millennium Falcon. This story about the boyhood heroism of the larger-than-life King David was one of my childhood favorites… and I know, some of yours as well. David was brave, sure of himself and of God’s love, unafraid in the face of the opinions of others—in short, he was everything I, and the children of my acquaintance, were not. I looked at the little wooden slingshots my father brought me home from the dimestore, and wondered how, and whether, I might find the courage to face down the giants of my life in my own way.
But, I’m sure some of you will point out to me, this story must be a myth, an example of the exaggerated reverence that marks a biblical editor’s uncritical devotion to the propaganda apparatus that sustained the Davidic monarchy. And I won’t argue with you there.
Nor would I argue with those of you who observe, rightly, that even little David is tempted to succumb to the bluster, the ideologies, the powers and principalities of Dominance and Destruction that his childlike presence is meant to countermand… .for this story of dominance and death touches our own deep and primitive will to win, to destroy whatever would threaten us by whatever means necessary. But maybe this too-apparent flaw in little David’s gentle shepherd persona is a warning for us, who take up our slingshots of justice and mercy for God’s sake against the Evildoers and the Powers That Be, that the line between right and self-righteous, between holy war and holy hell, is a thin one.
Even so… even though Frodo claimed the Ring as his own, and Harry Potter gloats over his enemies and alienates his family and friends, even though little David abused power and grew up to be less than the man he could have been, even so, we tell these stories; we need to.
These stories speak for a faith heritage that maintains, no, rather, that demands, that we regard ourselves as agents of God’s work in the world: powerful because the Light and the Spirit of God is at work in us; standing in where Christ once stood, for healing and kindness to the forsaken and forgotten, speaking a word of truth to power. Greater things than I have done, you will do, Jesus predicted of his followers; but they scarcely believed it, and we believe it not at all.
Why are we not the heroes of our own stories? How often, deep within our secret and sacred selves, do we know ourselves to be servants of the living God, touching within ourselves that place of harmony that made little David, in the face of overpowering odds and the sneering dismissal of his elders, graceful and confident and sure?
Surely not often enough . . .and the point of this old story is this: when family or home, country or neighbor or stranger is threatened, when the integrity of self is challenged, will we be able, or irrelevant?
These stories insist that we do have the means at hand to respond in the moment of trial with courage and with grace; that, despite our flaws and failings, we do stand in as the saving power of God in the world . . .but it is all too rare for us to choose to do so.
The story that ends with David’s brave act begins with King Saul and all the armies of Israel locked in a hopeless, meaningless confrontation with the overwhelming power of the Philistines. For forty days and nights—a long time—the people of David and Saul let their powerful enemy define the rules of engagement. The giant Goliath decreed that only a champion strong enough to fight him mano a mano would break the impasse that held the others captive. . .and neither Saul the king, nor his generals and men, challenged the Giant’s view of the world. No one would fight, no one could win, no negotiation, no way out. The story tells us: sometimes we lose the battles of our lives because we accept without question someone else’s rules, someone else’s reality, as the only way to live. Saul and his armies were victims before they had ever begun to fight because they accepted that Might—that is, Goliath—made Right; and they became puny and helpless in the face of someone else’s definition of the world.
I learned something else interesting about this text. It is not only within the story that Israel’s self-defeat is insured, but outside of it as well, in the notes of the various manuscripts used to pass the story on. The oldest and most reliable manuscripts set Goliath’s height at four cubits and a span, about 6’7”. But most bible translations use a less reliable manuscript, which sets Goliath’s height at a truly intimidating six cubits and a span, or nine and a half feet tall. We take odds that are bad… and make them worse. Almost as if we need to be victims; real and bonafide. For the more overwhelming the odds are against us, the smaller we can believe ourselves to be, and the sooner we can excuse ourselves for not trying, on our own behalf or on behalf of others, to make a difference, to save the day. We lose the important fights of our lives because we are more than willing to view ourselves as impotent, victimized, irrelevant and powerless.
But the Davids in these stories live in a different reality, with a self-understanding shaped not by fear, but by faith. They are responsible for themselves, and responsible for others. It did not occur to David to be a victim of someone else’s world view; for if he had done, he would have been dead, along with his family’s sheep. David saw the Philistine and did not ask, who can save us? but rather, who is this bully to defy the purposes of God? And as God’s child, he prepared to do what needed to be done.
There is another danger in this story—even when we, with David, measure our challenges and go forth to do battle. A danger that we will allow the advice and the fears of others to place undue weight upon us and break us, even when that advice conflicts with our truth.
David discovered this: having defied the Philistine, having committed himself to action, he still allowed himself to become caught up in Saul’s fears and values, Saul’s beliefs and opinions. Setting aside his own tools and skills, he let himself be draped in the armor of Saul—heavy, inappropriate, and therefore dangerous. Take it off! he finally demanded, though the idea of himself as a king-like warrior must have appealed, I am not used to it, it is not me.
David could only take himself into the fight he had accepted. . .and in the end, it was enough. And we are also enough, heroes of our own stories, carrying our vision, our gifts, and our truths into the stories and the places where overwhelming odds seem to belie the possibility that God might still be at work in the world. Do the children of God have anything to say about justice in the face of racism, sexism, classism? About kindness for the outcast, the condemned, the undocumented immigrant, the homeless? Does a Goliath-like challenge go unanswered because he is bigger than us, or will we let the myth of the shepherd boy draw us into a bigger vision of the world, and our callings in it? In the end, it’s not about the odds at all: but only about us, prospective heroes all: what do we believe—about ourselves, about God—and what are we willing to do about it?
Remember Ezra Nawi? We introduced him last week, a David facing down the Goliath in his own people’s midst, a warrior for peace whose tools seem laughably inadequate to the challenges before him. He is a Jewish Israeli of Iraqi descent who speaks fluent Arabic. He is a gay man in his fifties and a plumber by trade. He tried to stop a military bulldozer from destroying the homes of Palestinian Bedouins in the South Hebron region, and faces jail because of it. His story is being spread across the world, his cause made visible because he is David, singing the Lord’s song in the face of deep fear and a long, weary season of stalemate, suffering, and injustice. He is the man in Tiananmen Square, stopping the tanks; she is Wangari Maathai, the woman from Nyeri, Kenya who has championed the reforestation of Kenya and empowered the women there; he is Nelson Mandela, who penned the hymn we are about to sing; he is Christ in us, he is me, he is you. Let us believe it and pray:
Goodness is stronger than evil, love is stronger than hate,
Light is stronger than darkness, life is stronger than death…
Victory is ours, victory is ours, through God who loves us
Victory is ours, victory is ours, through God who loves us.