How the Bible critiques itself: a sermon

Sermon by Jamie Howison on 2 Samuel 5:1-10 and Mark 6:1-13

I think it is fair to say that you could not find a more troubling sentence in the whole of the Bible than this one: “David had said on that day, ‘Whoever wishes to strike down the Jebusites, let him get up the water shaft to attack the lame and the blind, those whom David hates.’” I’ve spoken to this before over the years, because I find it impossible to read such a passage, conclude with “The Word of the Lord,” and then not say at least something. Well, tonight I’m going to say a few “somethings”, which will hopefully help in wrestling with this and other similar sorts of texts.

First, a bit of context. We left off last Sunday with David’s aching lament over the deaths of Saul and Jonathan, after which he will begin to solidify his place as the new king of Israel. He begins with the tribe of Judah to the south, where he is quickly anointed as their king. The ten tribes of Israel to the north, however, are not so clear about David’s kingship, and soon war breaks out between Israel and Judah. There is plenty of intrigue and double-dealing behind the scenes, but in the end the leaders of the northern tribes determine that it is time to throw in their lot with this new king of Judah, and that’s where we picked up this evening.

Then all the tribes of Israel came to David at Hebron, and said, ‘Look, we are your bone and flesh. For some time, while Saul was king over us, it was you who led out Israel and brought it in. The Lord said to you: It is you who shall be shepherd of my people Israel, you who shall be ruler over Israel.’

It is notable that the image of “shepherd” is used here, showing that the arc of the narrative is from David as shepherd boy to David as shepherd king. On this, Walter Brueggemann comments,

The use of the [shepherd] metaphor applied to David thus provides a critical criterion for David, who on occasion gives himself for his flock and on occasion uses the flock for his own ends.

That is a crucial observation, because it points to the fact that these texts will refuse to tell only the “good” stories of a good king but instead will insist on telling the whole, sometimes painful, truth of the man.

Now, having been anointed king over all of the tribes, David sets out to establish for himself a capital city for his kingdom. In his tactical mind, David sees Jerusalem as the logical choice. It belongs to neither Judah nor the tribes of Israel, so that’s a prudent start. It is also clearly formidably defended, which makes it a doubly attractive prize. The one issue, though, is that it is the city of the Jebusites, who inhabit that part of the land. Here you need to set aside any modern notions of nations with well-defined borders and think more in terms of general tribal regions. That in the area where the tribes of Israel and Judah live there is also a territory inhabited by another people—complete with a fortified city—was simply the reality of those ancient days.

That explains why there are so many battles and skirmishes in these stories; the peoples were living basically on one another’s doorsteps, with land and settlements getting occupied back and forth over the years. Members of these tribal nations would also get absorbed into one another, which is how it is that Bathsheba is married to Uriah the Hittite, who serves in David’s army.

So, with his heart set on capturing Jerusalem, David finds himself taunted by the Jebusite leaders: “‘You will not come in here, even the blind and the lame will turn you back’—thinking, ‘David cannot come in here.’” Jerusalem has impenetrable walls, in other words, which virtually anyone could defend. But David comes up with a plan to gain access via the water tunnel, ordering the soldiers to “attack the blind and lame, those whom David hates.” Does he in fact hate them, or does he just resent the taunts that had been thrown at him by the Jebusite leaders? Hard to know the source of his hostility, but it does then roll forward into that statement, “Therefore it is said, ‘The blind and the lame shall not come into the house.’”

It is just such a repugnant passage, isn’t it? Yet the Bible is in a constant dialogue within itself, with some stories and teachings essentially calling out others. In this instance, just four chapters down the line we can read how David took Jonathan’s son, Mephibosheth, into his home and treated him like his own son. Mephibosheth was lame, having sustained a serious injury when he was five years old and fleeing for his life with his caregiver, right after his father Jonathan and grandfather Saul had died in battle.

Further, according to the writer of 1st Chronicles, the reason David is prohibited by God from building the temple in Jerusalem is because he has blood on his hands: “You shall not build a house for my name, for you are a warrior and have shed blood.” (28:3) Think here of Brueggeman’s comment that David sometimes “gives himself for his flock and on occasion uses the flock for his own ends.” David’s fierce and violent hatred can be seen as serving not the flock, but his own ends. And he is called on it.

And then consider the songs of the prophet Isaiah, whose dazzling imagination sees so far beyond a king who would prohibit the blind and lame from entering the temple. In chapter 56 the prophet sings of how in the fullness of time all people—including those of other nations and those who are maimed—will be made “joyful in my house of prayer”:

Their burnt-offerings and their sacrifices

will be accepted on my altar;

for my house shall be called a house of prayer

for all peoples. (Isaiah 56:7)

And now consider Jesus, who is called “son of David.” His entire ministry is framed in terms of one of Isaiah’s most dazzling songs:

‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,

because he has anointed me

to bring good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives

and recovery of sight to the blind,

to let the oppressed go free,

to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.’ (cited in Luke 4)

Far from “hating the blind and the lame,” Jesus reached out to embrace and restore and heal. He, as the embodiment of the new temple, the new Jerusalem, the coming kingdom that is already among us yet still awaiting its fullness, will not exclude. In the memorable phrase from Robert Capon, “Inclusion before exclusion” is Christ’s working principle, most vividly illustrated in the parable of the prodigal son. There is but one great feast in that parable, and the father wants both of his sons to be at that party. The younger son is swept off his feet when he returns home with his cap in hand, and the party is in motion. The elder son, though, excludes himself. He’s resentful, jealous, and angry at his father’s tolerance for that snotty little brother of his, and if the party is for him then he wants no part of it. The parable ends with those famous words, “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found,” and we’re left with the question: will the elder brother continue to exclude himself? Because he is meant to be included.

You see some of the same principle at work in today’s gospel reading, by the way. Jesus has gone back to his hometown of Nazareth, and he’s teaching in the synagogue. The response? Who does he think he is? That’s Mary’s boy, the carpenter. He grew up down the street, for heaven’s sake. There are his sisters over there. Pretty presumptuous to be teaching like he knows better than any of us.

This is followed by that startling line, that “Jesus could do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them.” Most of them had excluded themselves by their dismissal of Jesus, when what he wanted more than anything else was to include them in his acts of restoration and healing.

Well, that has taken us a long way from the story of David conquering Jerusalem, hatefully ordering that the blind and the lame be attacked, but I really did need to make the point that while our scriptures can tell troubling stories about its heroes, those stories are only part of a much longer and larger story, and one which continually critiques, counter-balances, and even refreshes itself with a good news far greater than any one troubling thing that David or anyone else might have said or done. Paraphrasing a sermon by the 18th century abolitionist preacher Theodore Parker, Martin Luther King Jr. famously said, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” Improvising on that quote, I would say that the arc of biblical story is long, but it bends hard toward grace, mercy, and inclusion. It does bend that way, it is bending that way, and therein lies our hope.