Runts
“God does not see the same way people see. People look at the outside of a person, but the Lord looks at the heart” (1 Sam. 16:7 ncv).
Sixth-grade. Do you remember sixth grade? I don’t. Well, not really. I don’t remember my grades, and I can’t even tell you the name of the blond-haired girl I had a crush on. But that spring evening in 1969? Like it was yesterday. I’m seated in the den because I’d asked to leave the dinner table. Mom had even made some cookies, but I passed on dessert because I wasn’t feeling very sociable tonight. I mean, who has time for sweets at a time like this?
Frankly, I’d expected the call before dinner, but it hadn’t come. I’d even listened for it during dinner. It hadn’t rung. Now, I’m staring at the phone like my dog does at his dish, hoping a Little League coach will tell me that I’ve made the All-Star team. I’m sitting on the couch with my glove at my side. I can hear my buddies playing out in the street, but I don’t care. All that matters is the phone. I want it to ring. Pleeeeeeeeeeease ring. It doesn’t.
I help with the dishes and finish my homework in silence. Mom says some kind words like she always does, but I don’t really respond. Bedtime’s around the corner, and the phone never rings. It sits there in silence in the den. Painful silence. Now, in the great scheme of things, not making an All-Star team doesn’t matter a whole lot. But eleven-year-olds don’t always see the “grand scheme of things,” right? It was a huge deal for me, and all I could think about was what I would say when schoolmates asked if I’d been selected. Rejection. Disaster.
You know the feeling, don’t you? The phone didn’t ring for you either. Well, at least maybe in the grander scheme of things, it didn’t. Like when you applied for the job, or when you tried to make up. The call never came. And you know the pain of a no call. We all do. In fact, we’ve even coined phrases for it – he was left “holding the bag,” or she was left “standing at the altar,” or they were left “out in the cold.” Or, “he’s out taking care of the sheep.” Huh?
David’s story begins on the ancient hillsides of Israel as an equally-ancient priest trundles down a narrow trail with a heifer lumbering along behind him. Bethlehem lies ahead and anxiety brews within. Farmers in their fields notice him, and those who know his face whisper his name, and those who hear the name turn to stare at his face. Samuel.
Yep, God’s chosen priest right there in Bethlehem. Called by God. And when the sons of Eli turned sour, young Samuel stepped forward. When Israel needed spiritual focus, Samuel provided it. When Israel wanted a king, Samuel anointed one … Saul. And now the very name causes Samuel to groan. Saul. The Israelites wanted a king, so we have a king alright. They wanted a leader, and we have a maniac – or manic – for one.
Saul’s heart has grown harder, and his eyes even wilder. He isn’t the king he used to be. In fact, in God’s eyes, he isn’t even king anymore. The Lord had already said to Samuel: “How long will you continue to feel sorry for Saul? I have rejected him as king of Israel. Fill your container with olive oil and go. I am sending you to Jesse who lives in Bethlehem, because I have chosen one of his sons to be king.” (1 Sam. 16:1) And so Samuel walks the trail toward Bethlehem. His stomach churns and his thoughts race.
Frankly, it’s just a little hazardous to anoint a king when Israel already has one, especially when the king is Saul! But it’s even more hazardous to live with no leader in such explosive times. 1000 BC was a bad time for this ramshackle bunch of tribes called Israel. Although Joshua and Moses were history-class heroes, three centuries of spiritual winter had frozen people’s faith. One writer described the days between Joshua and Samuel with this terse sentence: “In those days Israel did not have a king. Everyone did what seemed right.” (Jud. 21:25) Corruption fueled disruption, and immorality gave birth to brutality. The people had demanded a king. But rather than saving the ship, Saul had nearly sunk it. Israel’s first monarch turned out to be a psychotic blunderer.
And then there were the Philistines: a warring, bloodthirsty, giant-breeding people who had cornered the market on iron and blacksmithing. The Philistines built cities, while the Jewish people huddled in tents. Philistines forged iron weapons while the Hebrews fought with crude slings and arrows. Philistines thundered in flashing chariots, while the Israelites retaliated with farm tools. In fact, in one battle, the entire Hebrew army owned only two swords — one for Saul and the other for his son, Jonathan.
Corruption from within. Danger from without. Saul was weak, and the nation was weaker. So, what did God do? He did what no one imagined. He issued a surprise invitation to a nobody from nowhere. It’s like he dispatched Samuel to Wildomar, California.
The Bethlehem of Samuel’s day was like Wildomar: a sleepy, little village that time had forgotten nestled in the foothills some six miles south of Jerusalem. Bethlehem sat two thousand feet above the Mediterranean, looking down on gentle, green hills that flattened into gaunt, rugged pastureland. Jesus would issue his first cry under Bethlehem’s sky. But a thousand years before the manger scene, Samuel enters the village pulling a cow.
His arrival turns the heads of residents because prophets simply didn’t visit Bethlehem. Has he come to preach against someone, or maybe hide somewhere? (He certainly was sideways with Saul) “Neither,” the stoop-shouldered priest assures them. He has come to sacrifice the animal to God, and invites the elders, including Jesse and his sons, to join him.
The scene had a kind of beauty pageant feel to it. Samuel examines the boys one at a time like Miss America, or Miss Argentina, more than once ready to crown the contestant, but each time God stops him. For instance, Eliab, the oldest, seems the logical choice. Envision him as the village Casanova: wavy haired, strong jawed. He wears tight jeans and has a piano-keyboard smile. This is the guy, Samuel thinks. “Wrong,” God says.
Abinadab enters as contestant number two. You’d think a GQ model had just walked in. Italian suit. Alligator-skin shoes. Jet-black, oiled-back hair. Rolex watch. Want a classy king? Abinadab has the bling. “Nope.” God’s not into classy. So, Samuel asks for brother number three, Shammah. He’s bookish. You know, the studious type. Bursting with brains but in need of a charisma transplant. He’s got a degree from Harvard and his eyes on postgraduate studies. Jesse whispers to Samuel, “Valedictorian of Bethlehem High.” Samuel’s impressed, but God isn’t. He reminds the priest, “God does not see the same way people see. People look at the outside of a person, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Sam. 16:7)
Seven sons pass. Seven sons fail. And the procession comes to a halt. Samuel counts the siblings: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. “Hey, Jesse, don’t you have eight sons?” (A similar question caused Cinderella’s stepmother to become very uncomfortable. And Jesse likely did the same) “I still have the youngest son. He’s out taking care of the sheep.”
The Hebrew word used for “youngest son” implies more than just age. It also suggests rank. So, the “youngest son” was more than the youngest brother. He was the little brother. Or, to put it differently, he was the runt. And sheep watching fits runts. Put the boy where he can’t cause trouble. Leave him with woolly heads and open skies. And that’s where we find David – in the pasture with the flock. The Bible dedicates sixty-six chapters to his story, more than anyone else except Jesus. The New Testament mentions his name fifty-nine times. He will establish and rule the world’s most famous city, Jerusalem. The Son of God will be called the Son of David. The greatest psalms will flow from his pen. We’ll call him king, minstrel, even giant-killer. But today, he’s not even included in the family meeting; he’s just a forgotten kid performing a menial task in a nowhere town.
What caused God to pick him, anyway? After all, we’ve all walked in David’s pasture. You know, the pasture of exclusion. We are weary of society’s surface-level system, of being graded according to the inches of our waist, the square footage of our house, the color of our skin, or the label of our clothes. Don’t you get tired of those games? Hard work is ignored, and devotion is left unrewarded. The boss chooses cleavage over character. The teacher picks pet students instead of prepared ones. And parents show off their favorite sons and leave their runts out in the field.
Are you sick of the enemy of exclusion? Then it’s time to quit staring at him. Who cares what they think, anyway? What matters is what your Maker thinks. “The Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (16:7) Those words were written for the runts of society. Written for the misfits and outcasts. God uses them all. For instance, Moses ran from justice, but God used him. Jonah ran from God, but God used him, too. Rahab ran a brothel, Samson ran to the wrong woman, Sarah ran out of hope, and Lot ran with the wrong crowd. But God used them all. And David? God saw a teenager serving him in a backward town and, through the voice of a brother, God said, “David! Come inside. Someone wants to see you.”
Human eyes saw a gangly teenager enter the house, smelling like sheep and needing a bath. Yet, “the Lord said, ‘Arise, anoint him; for this is the one!’” (16:12) God saw what no one else saw: a God-seeking heart. David, for all his flaws, sought after God like white on rice. He took after God’s heart, because he stayed after God’s heart. And, in the end, that’s all God wanted or needed. And today, that’s all God wants or needs from you.
You see, others measure your waist size, or your wallet. Not God. He examines hearts. When he finds one set on him, he calls it and claims it. The story of young David assures us of this: our Father knows our hearts, and because he does, he has a place reserved just for each one of us. God doesn’t care about your waist size, the square footage of your house, the color of your skin, or the label of your clothes. God knows – and cares about – your heart. [1]
Hey! The phone’s ringing. Pick it up. Talk with God. He’s got great news for you.
You’re an All-Star.
Grace,
Randy
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