"Rooted and Grounded" (2 Sam 11:1-15)

Lost at Sea

It was 1988, and Lawrence Lemieux—Larry—was in Seoul, South Korea, for the Olympic Games. All his life had been preparation for this moment. Larry grew up in Edmonton, Alberta. His father had been a semi-professional hockey player and was a racquet sports enthusiast. There was a ping-pong table in the family basement. With seven siblings and a father who loved sports, Larry quickly learned a competitive spirit. His training partner for the Olympics, Brian, reported that practices with Larry were sometimes harder than the real event, because Larry didn’t want to lose.

On the morning of September 24, 1988, the waters in Busan were calm, nearly ideal for the sailing event in which Larry would later be competing. But shortly after the race began, the weather took a turn. The wind steadily rose to 35 knots, and the waves grew choppy and began to break. And Larry—Larry was thriving. He was no stranger to these conditions. As he navigated the waves, he established himself in second position out of thirty-two and had his eye on the leader. At that moment, he was scanning for the next marker, a buoy that signaled a turn; he was hoping to get the inside track. But instead of an orange buoy, he saw the white hull of a capsized boat and a man scrambling to stay atop. A little ways off bobbed the head of another man who was struggling in vain against the waves.

Later, reflecting back on this surreal moment, Larry would remark that his decision was not the result of thinking. He was not thinking about the downside of a rescue, how he would lose the race. He was not thinking about the upside, how he could become a hero. His decision was immediate, instinctive. He abandoned the race and went toward the flailing sailor, taking him aboard his own boat and then waiting with the capsized boat until an official rescue crew arrived. (In case you’re curious, the capsized boat was a part of a different competitive event.) In the end, Larry finished 23^rd in the race. He was awarded the Pierre de Coubertin medal for sportsmanship, the second competitor ever to receive what might be considered the rarest Olympic award.

As competitive as Larry is, this race revealed that his years of preparation had ingrained in him not only the value of competition but also an even deeper value of care. Larry knew what mattered most, not just in his head, but in his heart. So when the decisive moment came, there was no decision to make. He just did what he knew he had to do.

The irony is that, in the moment that Larry had lost sight of the marker, in the moment that he had become lost at sea, he knew exactly where to go. He knew what to do.

Settled: Sitting with No Rest

Today’s scripture opens with a quietly critical observation. It is springtime, “the time when kings go out to battle,” and where is King David? “David remained at Jerusalem” (2 Sam 11:1).

This word “remained” is the same word in Hebrew that was used in last week’s scripture, where we learned that David “was settled” in his new palace in Jerusalem (2 Sam 7:1).

Settled is a double-sided word. On the one hand, a person can be settled in the sense of being grounded, knowing their roots, secure in their identity and purpose. On the other hand, a person can be settled in the sense of being complacent, so comfortable and content with the way things are that they no longer live responsibly. Think of an office worker who has his routine down so pat, that he whiles away the day playing games on his phone, checking his email, buying things on Amazon, restlessly looking for something that will stimulate or interest him. The irony of this second sense of being “settled” is that it in fact reflects a profoundly unsettled spirit. There is no sense of purpose or necessity. It is living life on a whim, blown this way, then that. Think of a person sitting on a couch, not knowing what to do. Sitting with no rest.

That’s where David is, when late one afternoon he finally rises from his couch and walks to his roof to survey his kingdom. You know the story well enough from here. I’m not interested in rehashing it. Instead, I’m interested in exploring how David, a person “after God’s own heart,” finds himself rudderless, without a sense of identity and purpose.

Seeing and Taking

The first thing I notice is that David’s behavior actually follows a well-trodden biblical pattern. To put it in its simplest form, the pattern is this: see and take. It’s as old as the garden, where Eve sees that the fruit of this tree is good for food and takes it (Gen 3:6). More frequently, it happens that a person sees another person is beautiful and takes them, as Pharaoh does to Sarah (Gen 12:15) or as Shechem does with Jacob’s daughter, Dinah (Gen 34:2). Spoiler alert: this sequence of events rarely ends well. (As a side note, I don’t mean to suggest that the Bible is against beauty. There are other stories, where the sight of beauty breaks a person open with tears and renders them vulnerable to years of pursuit and growth, as in the case of Jacob and Rachel. The warning of biblical stories is not against beauty, but against the impulse that moves greedily, thoughtlessly from seeing to taking.)

In case the audience somehow neglects to observe David’s impulsivity, our storyteller expertly employs Uriah as a foil, a contrasting character that brings David’s behavior into light. When David summons Uriah back home, in the hope of covering up his misdeed with Bathsheba, Uriah plainly articulates his sense of duty and purpose. He will not rest in the comfort of his home when his companions are hard at work, when he himself stands ready to return to them. “As you live, and as your soul lives,” he says, “I will not do such a thing” (2 Sam 11:10). I wonder how David hears those words. I wonder if those words echo accusingly in David’s ear: “I will not do such a thing.” Where were those words earlier, when David looked out and saw Bathsheba? Why did he not think those words?

Covering Up

There is another curious detail in the story that illuminates David’s waywardness. As impulsive as his first act is, when he moves recklessly from seeing Bathsheba to taking her, his next action is carefully calculated. When he learns of Bathsheba’s pregnancy, he commences with a coverup. This is interesting to me because there is an easier solution. Later, when King Ahab desires the vineyard of Naboth and Naboth refuses, Ahab’s wife chides him, “Don’t you govern Israel?” (cf 1 Kgs 21:7). In other words, aren’t you the king? Can’t you have whatever you want? She then calls upon the elders and nobles of the city to kill Naboth, which they do accordingly.

David could just have Uriah killed at the outset. That he chooses not to, does not show us he is a good person. It shows us that he wants to be seen as a good person. His good character is a calculated façade. A good person simply does good. David does what he wants, and then tries to make himself look good. His goodness is a carefully crafted image rather than the actual cultivation of character.

Recently I finished reading a fascinating book titled Jesus and John Wayne, which is, essentially, about how American Christians have sometimes confused the two. The book traces the evolution of a militant and patriotic Christianity, a Christianity that idolizes power and fantasizes about an aggressive, conquering Jesus who ends up looking much like its national icon, John Wayne. (It is a Christianity that looks very different from what I see in Christ, who in today’s gospel passage actually runs away from power; he withdraws from the people when sees that they plan to make him king [John 6:15].) What makes the book so compelling is that after it has introduced its cast of a characters, many religious leaders whose names you might recognize, in its final chapter, it ponders the fruit of their way of thinking and points out how many of these leaders have been caught in acts of sexual abuse or harassment. I cannot help but see a connection with David. The unconscious but operative imperative in these leaders’ conduct was something along the lines of, “I do what I want because I can,” and then they covered up their behavior with a thick weave of piety, perhaps hiding it even from themselves as much as from others.

Paul’s Prayer for the Ephesians

If today’s scripture serves as a negative example—here’s how not to live—then we might turn to our New Testament lectionary text for the other side of the coin. In Ephesians, we find Paul praying for his fellow Christ-followers in Ephesus, praying “that Christ may dwell in [their] hearts through faith, as [they] are being rooted and grounded in love” (Eph 3:17). “Rooted and grounded” is exactly what David is not. He may be settled in Jerusalem, sitting in his palace. But he is profoundly unsettled and restless, with no sense of his identity or purpose, living impulsively at the next impulse and reactively as he tries to cover his tracks. He is like a boat tossed by the waves.

In contrast, I think of Larry, who found himself lost at sea, amid steep waves, yet who knew exactly where to go and what to do. I think of what he said about how his decision was not the result of thinking. I grew up with the understanding that ethics, or good conduct, involved a hypothetical situation that required careful thinking and a torturous decision—you know, like learning that a train was bound to hit a group of ten people and having the choice to pull a lever and divert it, where it would only hit one person. The thing is, I have yet to find myself in any bizarre hypothetical situation like that.

The reality, I have learned, is that ethical conduct is less a decision and more the natural unfolding of character. When Larry saw the capsized boat, he simply knew what he had to do. The decision that he made was in fact already made for him by a lifetime of preparation. I don’t know the details, but as he grew up in a family with seven siblings and a father who cared for him, I gather that he was in some way “rooted and grounded in love.” That is, he grew up in an environment where love was regularly practiced. Not only had he learned that he was loved regardless of success or failure, but he had also practiced this love, probably in small ways—things like holding the door for others, listening and not interrupting when someone else was speaking, doing a chore when one of his siblings was sick and unable. I’m just speculating, of course, but on the basis of Jesus’ reminder that who is faithful in small things, is faithful in bigger things too. I’m guessing Larry had practiced love in a lot of small ways. So when the storm hit and the waves rolled, he was unmoved. He knew what he was doing.

Little Ways of Learning and Practicing Love

All of which leads me to ask myself, “Am I being rooted and grounded in love”? Is Christ dwelling in my heart? I am inspired to consider the little ways that we learn and practice love (which I think also happen to be the most important ways). Reading scripture, in which dwells the spirit of Christ. Prayer, in which we open up and listen for Christ. Gathering at the Lord’s Table, where we are reminded vividly of the strange way of Christ’s love. Confession, where we are honest with a trusted Christ-follower about our shortcomings and we receive Christ’s grace and encouragement. Meeting the need of another person, where we discover Christ in the sweet exchange of vulnerability. And of course there are countless other ways of learning and practicing love, such as all the “one another” commandments in the New Testament: “Be at peace with each other” (Mk 9:50), “be kind and compassionate to one another” (Eph 4:32), “encourage each other” (1 Thess 4:18), “do not slander one another” (Ja 4:11), “pray for one another” (Ja 5:16). The “one anothering” that is so prevalent in the early church is a healthy reminder for me that we are rooted and grounded in love not by solitary practice, but only by living in community and sharing life in common with others.

The murder that David commits at the end of today’s passage, and the life that Larry saves off the coasst of South Korea, can both feel very distant from our mundane lives. But the truth is, those spectacular actions were just the fruit of countless little, unspectacular deeds that either drew the man nearer to God or let him drift further away. It is those little deeds that are a part of all our lives, and they are what matter most. For they are, as Paul puts it, part of “the power at work within us [that] is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine” (Eph 3:20).

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Who grounds us in the grace of God—
Sometimes we are lulled by the everydayness of life
Into thinking the little things don’t matter,
Perhaps even that we don’t matter.
May our deepest roots draw from your Spirit
And secure us in the faith
That we are loved unconditionally,
And that love can change everything;
Encourage us to be salt and light
In little ways,
That you might do “abundantly far more
Than all we can ask or imagine.”
Amen.

"I Will Make You a House" (2 Sam 7:1-14a)

From Pleasant to Problematic

For Katie, it began with book club. Every Thursday evening, she would gather with friends. Talking about a book seemed to open an exhaust valve for all of the emotions that had built up over the course of a week. The resentment toward her domineering boss. The frustration with her husband’s stonewalling. The worry about her aging parents. Book club was therapeutic. Talking about the travails and triumphs of characters helped her to accept and manage her own experiences.

One evening, the host opened up a couple bottles of wine. Katie noticed as she left that night how distant she felt from her usual concerns and worries. The next week when she hosted, she made sure to have wine for everyone. Soon, it was a ritual. It was enshrined as part of book club.

Once a week at book club was great, but Katie wanted even more of this cathartic experience. So she began to incorporate wine into a personal nightly ritual of reading and journaling. It felt therapeutic at first. But over time, things changed. She noticed that when there was no wine at book club, she became irritable and uninterested in sharing. She noticed that on her nights alone, there was less reading and more drinking. She noticed that she was becoming protective of her evenings, going out less with friends, even missing book club on occasion. It took a couple of years to become honest enough with herself to admit she had a problem.

Katie’s story is typical. No one chooses an addiction. No one sits down and seriously acknowledges the distant, potentially disastrous consequences of a decision (or a series of decisions) and says, “Even so, let me begin.”

The irony of addiction is that what becomes a problem, begins as a pleasant experience. “I should do that again,” a person might think. “I want more of the same.” And so the pleasant experience becomes enshrined in a repeated event. A ritual develops. A problem develops, too.

Finally Settled

Today’s scripture begins with King David finally “settled in his house” (2 Sam 7:1). Until recently, King David has lived much of his life on the move. Running away from a murderous king Saul. Hiding in the hills. Securing resources. Winning wives. Fighting battles. Now, for the first time since his youth perhaps, he is “settled.” He’s in a good moment. He has united the north and south of Israel and established a capital at Jerusalem (2 Sam 5:1-5). He has just comprehensively defeated Israel’s nemesis, the Philistines (2 Sam 5:17-25). He’s brought the ark of the covenant, the sacred symbol of God’s presence, to be by his side in Jerusalem (2 Sam 6). And he has built for himself a fine house of cedar, a royal palace, for him and his growing number of wives and concubines and children. Life, it would seem, is pleasant for David.

David decides that God needs a house too (2 Sam 7:1-2). As God will later point out, God has not asked for a house (2 Sam 7:7). This is coming entirely from David. So what, I wonder, is David’s reasoning? The English word that sometimes gets used to refer to a temple— “shrine”—hints at one possible motivation. David wants to enshrine the present moment. (Think of Peter at Jesus’ transfiguration, when he suggests building dwelling places for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah, so that they might stay as they are, so that the euphoric moment might be captured!) Perhaps as David has finally settled into a pleasant way of life, he would like to keep things just as they are. He would like for God to settle down beside him and bless things the way they are and preserve them.

And David is probably not alone. Hundreds of years later, after a temple—a “house”—for God has been built, Jeremiah will stand in its gate and proclaim to the people, “Do not trust in these deceptive words: ‘This is the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord’” (Jer 7:4). The implication is that the people of Israel who are in a pleasant moment, who are doing well (but at the expense of others, like the widow and the foreigner and the poor), have come to see the Temple as God’s guarantee of their way of life. They see the Temple as a sign of God’s blessing, a sign that God is on their side.

Part of me wonders if David’s desire for a temple, and the people’s later attachment to it, does not reflect the roots of addiction, or what in biblical language we might call idolatry. Could the temple maybe sometimes function as a shrine? That is, could it be the enshrinement of a pleasant experience that will in fact become a problem. As we will see next week, David’s downfall involves him reclining in his palace while his army are out at war. It seems that David is indeed trying to preserve the pleasant moment that he finds himself at in today’s passage. He is trying to maintain this way of life to which he would like to become accustomed. And it will become a big problem for him.

House as Building and House as Dynasty

Today’s scripture is a little bit like a house of mirrors. The word “house” appears many times and takes on multiple meanings, so that at each turn—each time it is mentioned—we might wonder which house we’re looking at, what kind of “house” we’re talking about. The first meaning is clear enough. David wants to build a literal “house,” a building, for God, and God says no. God does not need a house.

But then God turns around and promises to David, “The Lord will make you a house” (2 Sam 7:11). Clearly God does not mean a building, for David has already built himself a house, a royal  palace. Instead, it seems that “house” here means dynasty. God explains, “I will raise up your offspring after you, who shall come forth from your body, and I will establish his kingdom. He shall build a house for my name, and I will establish the throne of his kingdom forever” (2 Sam 7:12-13). On the surface, it would appear that God refers here to Solomon, David’s son, and that Solomon will build a “house”—that is, a temple—for God. The only problem with this interpretation is that the end of God’s prophecy does not come true. God does not establish the throne of Solomon’s kingdom forever, not in a literal sense. When the Babylonians conquer Judah and destroy the Temple, they effectively terminate the Davidic dynasty. There will never again be a king sitting on the throne of an independent Israel.

House as Family

The rabbis recognized this problem early on and interpreted that God’s promise here must refer not only to Solomon, but more importantly to a distant messiah who would establish (or rather, re-establish) the kingdom of Israel. This interpretation almost suits our own faith in Jesus as the messiah. I say “almost” because Jesus does not re-establish the kingdom of Israel in its original sense.

But there is a third meaning for the Hebrew and Greek words for “house.” Not building, not dynasty…but family. Could it be that God’s promise to “make…a house” for David has to do with a new family? In today’s New Testament scripture, Paul tells the gentiles in Ephesus: “You are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God” (Eph 2:19). The gist of Paul’s message is that Jesus, at the cost of his life, has welcomed everyone into God’s family. In Paul’s metaphor, this “household” is not characterized by a building—indeed, he envisions Jesus in the work of demolition not construction, of “[breaking] down the dividing wall[s]” (Eph 2:14). In doing so, Jesus creates a “new humanity.” Where before there were many walls, and many different kinds of people—Jews, gentiles, men, women, free, slave (Eph 2:15)—now there is one family of God.

A “New Humanity”

I was fascinated to learn this past week that in the second century, Christians were occasionally referred to as a “new race” or a “third race.” In other words, followers of Christ were so different from everyone around them, both Romans and Jews, that they really were (as Paul puts it) “a new humanity.”  To put this another way: Jesus did not come to make you (singular) into a new person. He came to make us (plural) into a new people, a new “house,” a new family. That people were calling Christians “a new race” suggests that they recognized the risen Christ not in a single person, but in a group of people. They noticed a “new humanity.” This new humanity had a peculiar way of eating together, where there were no seats of privilege, where they called one another “brother” and “sister” and considered one another equally important parts of the same body. This new humanity had a peculiar way of living together, as they shared their money and resources in common. This new humanity had a peculiar and unsettling way of resolving conflict, in which instead of “settling” things through payment or retribution they forgave one another.

Historian Alan Kreider has suggested that one additional way the early followers of Christ really distinguished themselves in Greco-Roman culture was through their freedom from the common compulsions of their society—namely compulsions toward money, sex, and power. In other words, they were liberated from that common tendency to idolize a pleasant thing, to enshrine it and try to preserve it. As a result, they were free to care for each other as part of the same family.

At this point, we are a long way from today’s scripture. King David wanted to build a temple…perhaps to preserve what were for him very pleasant circumstances. But in Christ, the walls of our shrines, the walls of our temples, our idols meant for keeping things the way they are—they all come crashing down. God does not want the kind of house that David wants. God wants not a palace but a people. Not walls but a reconciled family.

In Christ, we see just what God wants. A new humanity, not preoccupied with preserving a pleasant moment, not compelled to construct walls to keep people in their place and things the way they are—but instead a new humanity free to care for each other.

Prayer

Merciful God,
Whose love is like the sun and the rain,
Falling on us all,
Inviting us all into our true family—
May Christ lead us from closed buildings and dividing walls
To open circles and get-together tables;
May Christ liberate us from idols and attachments
To love and care for others
…
So that you might dwell more fully in us,
And we and others might share
The salvation of a new humanity,
In Christ, who is our peace: Amen.