Timebomb

“Timebomb”

Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everybody. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my friends, but leave room for God's wrath, for it is written: "It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. On the contrary: "If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink. In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head." Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. (Romans 12: 17-21)

Know anyone who’s a ticking time bomb? They look pretty normal, but then you raise a certain subject, or look a certain way and then … KABOOM! They explode. You’ve been there, haven’t you? Maybe it’s a comment, a word or even a look. Maybe even a grudge.

 The dictionary defines a grudge as a “cherished dislike.” Interesting. Cherished dislike. OK, now it’s one thing to cherish something you like, like you cherish your wife or your husband, or you cherish your kids, or you cherish God. But cherishing something you don’t like? That’s oxymoronic. You know, words in combination that don’t make sense like working vacation, or found missing, or jumbo shrimp; maybe even pretty ugly, or original copies, or only choice. A cherished dislike: a grudge we despise but hang onto, anyway.

Ahithophel was a walking time bomb: normal under the circumstances and a good friend of King David, but wound tighter than a drum and ready to explode. Now, it wasn’t that Ahithophel was unintelligent or anything. In fact, he was an extremely bright man. The Bible says that “… the advice Ahithophel gave was like that of one who inquires of God.” (2 Sam. 16:23) In other words, when it came to the advice category, he was your go-to guy; talking with Ahithophel was like talking to God. And this guy was David’s close counselor, too. So, anytime the king had a problem, he’d call for Ahithophel. Of course, this kind of access to David and the kingdom gave Ahithophel huge props. It’d be like the President asking you for advice on the Middle East. But even smart people can do some really dumb things sometimes.

Ahithophel, as wise as he was, was a time bomb ready to blow. Fact is, he was carrying a huge grudge. He was full of bitterness, anger and hostility because of a past experience from which he could not recover. So, what was his problem, anyway? Better yet, “What’s yours?” Is there something in your life that’s building up like TNT? You know, just one false move and, BOOM, you explode? Maybe someone injured you; maybe someone said something about you that was completely false and put you in a very bad light. Is there someone, or something, in your life that could really set you off? Well, at least think about it. But then again, maybe you’re just not that kind of person. OK, well that’s my grudge, but back to the story.

Absalom, David’s son, had rebelled against David and had stolen the hearts of the people of Israel by promising them everything under the sun so long as they would make him king. (Sound familiar? Sorry, but political promises in exchange for votes have a long and sordid history) Amazingly, Absalom was doing this right under his dad’s nose. But after 4 years of electioneering, kissing babies, undermining David as king and showing off to everyone, Absalom said to his dad, "Let me go to Hebron and fulfill a promise I made to the Lord.” (2 Sam. 15:7) But that was just a ruse. Because when Absalom arrived at Hebron, just 20 miles away, he sent secret messengers to the tribes of Israel with this memo: "As soon as you hear the sound of the trumpets, then say, ‘Absalom is king in Hebron.’" (2 Sam. 15:10)

In other words, Absalom didn’t go to Hebron to fulfill any vow. He went there to orchestrate a coup. Kill the legitimate king and Absalom would be the new one. So, there’s Absalom in Hebron, starting a rebellion, gathering an army, organizing his cabinet, reaching out to everyone who’d support him in preparation for his march on Jerusalem and that’s when he makes the call – to Ahithophel, David’s counselor, to join the mutiny. (2 Sam. 15:12)

Now, why in the world would he do that? I mean, Ahithophel was supposedly a smart guy, and he’d been David’s counselor forever, even serving in David’s cabinet. Yet Absalom reached out and then into David’s inner circle, the ones with all the power, and Absalom gets one of them to be a Judas. Really? Yeah, because if Absalom could attract some of David’s counselors, especially the one whose advice was like hearing from God, then everybody’d think, "Well, I guess we’d better get on the right side of this one; even Ahithophel’s bailing.”

But how’d Absalom manage to do that? Ahithophel was certainly smart enough to know this wasn’t a sure thing. I mean, he could have consulted with himself, right? But, Absalom knew something about Ahithophel. He knew that Ahithophel was a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode. You see, over the years, Absalom had had the opportunity to discover that Ahithophel was carrying a grudge, a “cherished dislike,” against David. And this grudge likely caused Ahithophel to abandon reason, and David, for the enemy’s camp.

So, what was the grudge? What would cause Ahithophel to abandon his long-time friend, David? Well, putting together a few verses from the Old Testament, we can see it for ourselves. In 2 Sam. 23:34, we’re given a list of David’s mighty men and it mentions Eliam, the son of Ahithophel. Then, in 2 Sam. 11:2 we read, “David got up from his bed and walked around on the roof of the palace. From the roof he saw a woman bathing. The woman was very beautiful, and David sent someone to find out about her. The man said, "Isn’t this Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam and the wife of Uriah the Hittite?” Get it? Yep, Bathsheba was Ahithophel’s granddaughter, taken from her husband, Uriah, who was then murdered at David’s command to cover up a pregnancy – David’s love child! (Who needs Soaps, anyway?)

Now, it’s pretty likely that Bathsheba eventually forgave her new husband, David. And maybe Eliam, Bathsheba’s father, forgave David, too. And, we certainly know that God forgave David. But Ahithophel, the grandfather, never let it go. He never forgave David for that sin. He carried a grudge, and for years and years it festered in him until it finally exploded when he had the opportunity in Absalom’s rebellion to abandon David.

Absalom’s rebellion eventually led to Absalom chasing David out of Jerusalem. And once David was out of Jerusalem, Absalom asked Ahithophel what he should do next. Ahithophel’s advice was, among other things, to give Ahithophel twelve thousand men to pursue and kill David, and only David, immediately. (Wow. Now that’s a grudge) But instead of following Ahithophel’s advice, Absalom decided to ask somebody else, Hushai, who was actually David’s friend who’d stayed behind in Jerusalem, as a double-agent, to frustrate Ahithophel’s counsel. Hushai’s advice was that Absalom should wait and then make a full-scale attack on David in his own stronghold. All of Absalom’s men, including Absalom, agreed with Hushai. (What is it about men and their ego?) And that was the end of Ahithophel’s advice.

So, what does a wise guy do when his advice is rejected? “When Ahithophel saw that his advice had not been followed he saddled his donkey and set out for his house in his hometown. He put his house in order and then hanged himself.” (2 Sam. 17:23) Ahithophel knew the cause was doomed. He knew that David would be able to rally the troops and, in the end, win the battle. You see, the end of any grudge, the end of carrying bitterness in our hearts results in a total collapse. The thing is, it doesn’t destroy the other person that we’re seeking to hurt. It destroys us, instead.

If we’re not able to experience forgiveness, and extend that same forgiveness to others, we don’t destroy others – we destroy ourselves. Forgiveness is not something we give to people when they come crawling back to us on their knees. Forgiveness is not something we extend to people when they finally realize that they were wrong and we were right and then beg us to forgive them. Forgiveness is an attitude toward people that demonstrates that we don’t hold grudges, that we don’t carry bitterness, that – like them – we’ve been forgiven, too.

Bitterness is a poison, and it’s just like a boomerang: you throw it, and it might feel good when you let it go, but it comes back and cuts your heart out. Carrying a grudge destroys us. It doesn’t destroy others. For instance, imagine I cut my hand and I put a band-aid on it. I then show it to my wife, Sandy, and she says, "It’s alright, don’t worry; it’s just a little cut." Then, the next day, I take the band-aid off and show it to her again. "Wow, it’s healing pretty good,” she says. But then I say, "No, it’s not," and proceed to peel off the scab, reopen the cut and squeeze it until it bleeds. "Now what do you think?” Shocked, Sandy says, "Uh, yeah, that’s pretty bad after all. Let me take care of you (you big baby)." Or, maybe she just says, “You’re crazy.”

You see, I wanted some sympathy, some attention, and I finally got it. But at what price? By re-opening a wound that, through God’s grace, was sure to heal. Now, I’d never do that with a cut, but I’ll do that with an emotional injury. And why do we do that? Why, when we’re emotionally injured by someone, do we then go to somebody else and keep reopening the wound? Keep showing it off so that the infection will grow? You know, do that enough and you could die from the infection and not from the wound itself. And do that enough with an emotional injury and you could lose your spiritual life to the infection called sin.

So, don’t nurse a grudge. Don’t allow the poison of the past to pollute your present. Whether the past sins are your own, or whether they’re others, accept and experience God’s grace. When we understand God’s forgiveness of our sins, we are then able to extend that forgiveness to others – even when they don’t ask for it. We’re forgiving them not for them, but for us. We are expressing to them the grace of God in the same way God expressed His grace to us: by dying for us while we were yet sinners. And so we, in turn, are able to die for others, to forgive others, to live gracefully for others, even while they’re sinners. (Romans 5:8)

OK. But didn’t Ahithophel have a right to be offended? Absolutely. And didn’t David do a horrible thing? Yes, he did. And didn’t Ahithophel have a right to be injured? Unquestionably. But did he have a right to be unforgiving and to carry that bitterness throughout his whole life? No, not if he was going to experience what God wants us to experience. God forgave David. Ahithophel, apparently, never did.

The best way to defuse a grudge is to forgive before the other person asks, even if it’s never asked. Try this. Think of someone against whom you may be holding a grudge. It may be a broken or estranged relationship, for instance. Now, think of some way you can defuse that ticking time bomb. For instance, you could send that person a note, or make a phone call; maybe even invite them to dinner.

Truth is you’ll eventually die from an infection if you constantly reopen your physical wounds and expose them to the elements. So, instead, allow the cleansing grace of God to heal those spiritual and emotional wounds that trouble you. And keep that band-aid of His grace on the injury; it’ll heal in time. Oh, and then consider that if He did it for you, perhaps you should do the same for others. 

Or, is your grudge bigger than your God?

Grace,

Randy

Giants

Giants

“The Lord will deliver you into my hand … that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel” (1 Sam 17: 46).

The slender, beardless boy knelt by the brook with mud on his knees while the water bubbled through his hands. His copper-colored hair, tanned skin and dark eyes stole the breath, and hearts, of single women. But he’s not looking at his reflection, though. He’s looking for rocks. “Stones,” is probably a better word. Smooth stones – the kind of stones that stack neatly in a pouch and, when necessary, rest flush against a leather sling. Flat rocks that balance heavy on the palm and missile like a comet into the head of a lion, a bear, or, in this case, a giant. (Oh my!)

Meanwhile, Goliath stares down from the hillside. Only disbelief keeps him from laughing. He and his Philistine herd have rendered their half of the valley into a forest of spears. A growling, bloodthirsty gang of hoodlums boasting do-rags, B.O. and barbed-wire tattoos. And Goliath towers above them all: nine feet, nine inches tall in his stocking feet, wearing 125 pounds of armor, and snarling like the main contender at a WWF contest. He wears a size-20 collar, a 10½ hat, and a 56-inch belt. His biceps burst, his thigh muscles ripple, and his boasts belch through the canyon. And the tip of his spear? It’s about the weight of a bowling ball.

“This day I defy the ranks of Israel! Give me a man and let us fight each other.” (1 Sam. 17:10) Who will go mano a mano conmigo? (Translation: “Who will go hand-to-hand with me?) Give me your best shot! But no volunteers, at least not until today. Not until David.

David had just arrived that morning. He’d earlier clocked out from his sheep-watching duties to deliver bread and cheese to his brothers on the battlefront. That’s where David hears Goliath defying God, and that’s when David makes his decision. He takes his staff in his hand, chooses five smooth stones from the brook, puts them in his shepherd’s bag, grabs his sling and gets close to the Philistine. (17:40) Goliath scoffs at the kid and calls him Twiggy, e.g. “Am I a dog that you come to me with sticks?” (17:43)

Skinny, scrawny David. Bulky, brutish Goliath. The toothpick versus the tornado. The toy poodle taking on the Rottweiler. What odds do you give David against his giant? Better odds, perhaps, than you give yourself against your own? But your Goliath doesn’t carry a sword or a shield. Maybe your giant brandishes weapons of unemployment, abandonment, abuse or depression. Your giant doesn’t parade up and down the hills of Elah; he prances through your office, your home or maybe a classroom. He brings bills you can’t pay, grades you can’t make, people you can’t please, drugs you can’t resist, pornography you can’t refuse, a career you can’t escape, a past you can’t shake, and a future you can’t face.

You know Goliath’s roar.

David faced one who fog-horned his challenges morning and night. “For forty days, twice a day, morning and evening, the Philistine giant strutted in front of the Israelite army.” (17:16) And yours does the same. First thought of the morning, last worry of the night – your Goliath dominates your day and interrupts your joy. How long has he been stalking you?

Goliath’s family was an ancient foe of the Israelites. Joshua drove them out of the Promised Land three hundred years earlier. He destroyed everyone except the residents of three cities: Gaza, Gath, and Ashdod. Gath bred giants like Yosemite grows sequoias. Guess where Goliath was raised? See the G on his letterman’s jacket? Yep. Gath High School. His ancestors were to Hebrews what pirates were to the British navy. And Saul’s soldiers saw Goliath and thought, “Not again! My dad fought his dad. My grandpa fought his grandpa.”

You’ve groaned similar words, haven’t you? “I’m becoming a workaholic, just like my father.” “Divorce streaks through our family like stripes on a zebra.” “My mom couldn’t keep a friend either. Is this ever going to stop?” Your Goliath awaits you in the morning, and torments you at night. He stalked your ancestors and now looms over you. He blocks the sun and leaves you standing in the shadow of doubt. “When Saul and his troops heard the Philistine’s challenge, they were terrified and lost all hope.” (17:11)

You know Goliath. You recognize his walk and wince at his talk. You’ve seen your Goliath. The question is, is he all you see? And you know his voice. But is it all you hear? David saw and heard more. Read the first words he spoke, not just in the battle, but in the Bible: “David asked the men standing near him, ‘What will be done for the man who kills this Philistine and removes this disgrace from Israel? Who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God?’” (17:26)

David shows up discussing God. The soldiers mentioned nothing about him, the brothers never spoke his name, but David takes one step onto the stage and raises the subject of the living God. He does the same with King Saul: no chitchat about the battle or questions about the odds. Just an announcement: “The Lord, who delivered me from the paw of the lion and from the paw of the bear, He will deliver me from the hand of this Philistine.” (17:37). In other words, no one else discusses God. David discusses no one else but God.

David sees what others don’t, and refuses to see what others do. All eyes, except David’s, fall on the brutal, hate-breathing hulk. All compasses, except for David’s, are set on the polestar of the Philistine. All journals, but David’s, describe the feelings of living day after day in the land of the Neanderthal. The people know his taunts, demands, size and strut. They have majored in Goliath. David majors in God. He sees the giant, mind you; he just sees God more so. Look carefully at David’s battle cry: “You come to me with a sword, with a spear, and with a javelin. But I come to you in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel.” (17:45)

 

Note the plural noun—armies of Israel. Armies? The common observer sees only one army of Israel. Not David. He sees the Allies on D-Day: platoons of angels and infantries of saints, the weapons of the wind and the forces of the earth. God could pellet the enemy with hail as he did for Moses, collapse walls as he did for Joshua, or stir thunder as he did for Samuel. David sees the armies of God. And because he does, David hurries and runs toward the army to meet the Philistine. (17:48)

David’s brothers cover their eyes, both in fear and embarrassment. This is a train wreck in the making. Saul sighs as the young Hebrew races to a certain death. Goliath throws his head back in laughter … just enough to shift his helmet and expose a square inch of flesh on his forehead. David spots the target and seizes the moment. The sound of the swirling sling is the only sound in the valley. Whooooosh, Whooooosh, Whooooosh. The stone torpedoes through the air and into the skull; Goliath’s eyes cross and legs buckle. He crumples to the ground and David runs over and yanks Goliath’s sword from its sheath, shish-kebabs the Philistine, and cuts his head off.

When was the last time you did the same thing? You know. How long has it been since you ran toward your challenges? We tend to retreat, or duck behind a desk of work, or crawl into a pill bottle of distraction. Like a one-sided football team, we have only a defense not an offense. For a moment, a day or a year, we feel safe, insulated, anesthetized. But then the work runs out, the drugs wears off and we hear Goliath again. Booming. Bombastic. So, try a different tack next time. Rush your giant with a God-saturated soul.

And how long has it been since you loaded your sling and took a swing at your giant? Too long, you say? Then David is your model. God called him “a man after my own heart.” (Acts 13:22) He gave this appellation to no one else. Not Abraham. Not Moses. Not Joseph. He called Paul an apostle, John his beloved, but neither was tagged a man after God’s own heart. But when you read David’s story, you wonder what God saw in him in the first place.

David fell as often as he stood; stumbled as often as he conquered. He stared down Goliath, but ogled at Bathsheba; defied God-mockers in the valley, yet joined them in the wilderness. An Eagle Scout one day. Hanging out with the Mafia the next. He could lead armies but couldn’t manage his own family. Raging David. Weeping David. Bloodthirsty. God-hungry. Eight wives. One God. A man after God’s own heart? Really? That God saw him as such gives us all reason to hope.

David’s life has little to offer the unstained saint. “Straight-A” souls find David’s story disappointing. The rest of us find it reassuring because we ride the very same roller coaster. We alternate between swan dives and belly flops, soufflés and burnt toast. In David’s good moments, no one was better. But in his bad moments? Frankly, could anyone be worse? The heart God loved was a checkered one, at best. But we need David’s story. Giants lurk in our lives. Giants of rejection, failure, revenge and remorse.

 Giants. We must face them. Yet we need not face them alone. Focus first, and most, on God. The times David did, giants fell. The days he didn’t, David did. Test this theory with an open Bible. Read 1 Samuel 17 and list the observations David made regarding Goliath. There are only two. One statement to Saul about Goliath (v. 36), and one to Goliath’s face: “Who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God?” (v. 26)

That’s it. Two Goliath-related comments (tacky ones at that) and no questions. No inquiries about Goliath’s skill, age, social standing, or IQ. David asks nothing about the weight of the spear, the size of the shield, or the meaning of the skull and crossbones tattooed on the giant’s bicep. David gives no thought to the diplodocus on the hill. But he gives much thought to God. Read David’s words again, this time focusing on his references to his Lord. “The armies of the living God” (v. 26). “The armies of the living God” (v. 36). “The Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel” (v. 45). “The Lord will deliver you into my hand … that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel” (v. 46).“The Lord does not save with sword and spear; the battle is the Lord’s; He will give you into our hands” (v. 47). Nine references. God-thoughts outnumber Goliath-thoughts by a score of nine to two. That’s about 88%.

How does that ratio compare with your own? Do you ponder God’s grace four times as much as you ponder your guilt? Is your list of blessings four times as long as your list of complaints? Is your mental file of hope four times as thick as your mental file of dread? Are you four times as likely to describe the strength of God as you are the demands of your day? No? Then David’s your man.

Robert Ripley, the “Believe-It-or-Not” man, once pointed out: “A plain bar of iron is worth $5. This same bar of iron, when made into horseshoes, is worth $10.50. If made into needles, it is worth $355. If made into penknife blades, it is worth $3,285; and if turned into balance springs for watches, that identical bar of iron becomes worth $250,000.” The difference? The pounding that’s applied.

So, this week, remember: Focus on giants—you stumble. Focus on God—your giants tumble. The God who made a miracle out of David stands ready to make one out of you, too.

Grace,

Randy

Crippled

Crippled

            (Saul’s son Jonathan had a son named Mephibosheth, who was crippled in both feet. He was five years old when the news came from Jezreel that Saul and Jonathan were dead. Mephibosheth’s nurse had picked him up and ran away. But as she hurried to leave, she dropped him, and now he was lame ….)

The king asked, “Is anyone left in Saul’s family? I want to show God’s kindness to that person.” Ziba answered the king, “Jonathan has a son still living who is crippled in both feet.” The king asked Ziba, “Where is this son?” Ziba answered, “He is at the house of Makir son of Ammiel in Lo Debar.”

Then King David had servants bring Jonathan’s son from the house of Makir son of Ammiel in Lo Debar. Mephibosheth, Jonathan’s son, came before David and bowed face down on the floor. David said, “Mephibosheth!” Mephibosheth said, “I am your servant.” David said to him, “Don’t be afraid. I will be kind to you for your father Jonathan’s sake. I will give you back all the land of your grandfather Saul, and you will always eat at my table.”

Mephibosheth bowed to David again and said, “You are being very kind to me, your servant! And I am no better than a dead dog!” Then King David called Saul’s servant Ziba. David said to him, “I have given your master’s grandson everything that belonged to Saul and his family. You, your sons, and your servants will farm the land and harvest the crops. Then your family will have food to eat. But Mephibosheth, your master’s grandson, will always eat at my table.” (Now Ziba had fifteen sons and twenty servants.) Ziba said to King David, “I, your servant, will do everything my master, the king, commands me.” So Mephibosheth ate at David’s table as if he were one of the king’s sons. (2 Sam. 4:4; 9:3-11)

Family therapist, Paul Faulkner, tells the story of a man who took steps to adopt a troubled teenager. But you’d have to question his logic, because the girl was destructive, disobedient and dishonest. One day, she came home from school and thrashed the house looking for money. By the time the father arrived home from work, she was gone and the house was a complete wreck. Friends urged him not to finalize the adoption. “Let her go,” they said. “After all, she’s not really your daughter.” His response was simply, “Yes, I know. But I told her she was.”

God, too, made a covenant to adopt His people, and His covenant’s not invalidated by our rebellion, i.e., ransacking His house looking for something to steal. But it’s one thing to love us when we’re obedient and willing, but when we ruin his house and steal what’s His? But the father didn’t look at the wrecked house and say, “Come back when you’ve learned some respect, young lady!” And God doesn’t look at our frazzled lives and say, “I’ll die for you when you deserve it,” any more than David looked at Mephibosheth and say, “I’ll rescue you when you’ve learned to walk.”

(Saul’s son Jonathan had a son named Mephibosheth, who was crippled in both feet. He was five years old when the news came from Jezreel that Saul and Jonathan were dead. Mephibosheth’s nurse had picked him up and ran away. But as she hurried to leave, she dropped him, and now he was lame ….)

The parentheses around the verse are not a typographical error. Mephibosheth is bracketed into the Bible – literally. Frankly, the verse doesn’t tell us much, either: just his name (Mephibosheth); his calamity (he was dropped by his nurse); and his deformity (he was handicapped).

Mephibosheth was the son of Jonathan, and the grandson of Saul, the first king of Israel. Saul and Jonathan had been killed in battle, leaving the throne to be occupied by David. In those days, the new king often staked out his territory by “rubbing out” the family of the previous king. And although David had no intention of following this tradition, Saul’s family didn’t know that. So, they hurried to escape, and of special concern to them was little, five year old Mephibosheth since, upon the deaths of his father and grandfather, he was the presumptive heir to the throne. And, if David was intent on murdering Saul’s heirs, this boy would be first on his “hit list.” So the family got out of town. But in their haste, Mephibosheth slipped from the arms of his nurse, permanently damaging both feet. And for the rest of his life he would be handicapped – a cripple.

So, for nearly twenty years the young prince had lived far away, unable to walk to the king and way too fearful to talk to him. He was unable to help himself. Meanwhile, David’s kingdom was flourishing. Under his leadership, Israel grew to ten times its original size. He knew no defeat in battle, or insurrection in his court. Israel was at peace, the people were thankful, and David, the shepherd-made-king, did not forget his promise to Jonathan. You see, David and Jonathan had been legendary friends meeting its ultimate test the day David learned that Saul was trying to kill him. Jonathan pledged to save David, but asked his friend for one favor in return: “You must never stop showing your kindness to my family, even when the Lord has destroyed all your enemies from the earth.” (1 Sam. 20:14-15)

Now David, perhaps standing on the balcony overlooking his kingdom, was reminiscing about his friendship with Jonathan, and his promise. Perhaps David thought, “Had it not been for Jonathan saving my life, none of this would’ve happened.” Whatever his mood, David turned to his servants and said, “Is anyone still left in Saul’s family? I want to show kindness to that person for Jonathan’s sake!” David had been delivered, and now he wanted to return the favor.

A servant named Ziba knew of a descendant. “Jonathan has a son still living who is crippled in both feet.’ The king asked Ziba, ‘Where is this son?’ Ziba answered, ‘He is at the house of Makir son of Ammiel in Lo Debar.’” Just one sentence and David knew he had more than he’d bargained for. The boy was crippled in both feet, and who would’ve blamed David for asking Ziba, “Are there any other options, like any healthy family members?” Who would have faulted David for thinking, A cripple just won’t fit into the castle crowd. Only the elite walk these floors, and this kid can’t even walk! And what service can he provide? He has no wealth, no education, no training. And who knows what he looks like? All these years he’s been living in … what was it again? Lo Debar? Even the name means “barren place.” Surely there’s someone I can help who isn’t so needy.  But David’s only response was, “Where is this son?”

How long had it been since Mephibosheth had been referred to as a son? In all previous references he was called a cripple. Every mention of him thus far was followed by his handicap. But the words of David make no mention of his affliction. He doesn’t ask, “Where’s Mephibosheth, this problem child?” Rather, he asks, “Where’s this son?”

You know what it’s like, don’t you? Each time your name is mentioned, your calamity follows – kinda like Pig Pen in the Peanuts comic strip. “Have you heard from John lately? You know, the guy who got divorced?” Or, “We got a letter from Jerry. Remember him, the addict?” Or, “Sharon’s in town. What a shame she has to raise those kids alone.” Or, maybe, “I saw Melissa today. I don’t know why she can’t keep a job.” Your past follows you wherever you go, and Mephibosheth carried his stigma for twenty years. When people mentioned his name, they mentioned his problem. But when the king mentioned his name, he called him “son.” But let’s consider the matter from Mephibosheth’s perspective.     There’s a knock on the front door. Makir goes to answer it and there stands Ziba with an authoritative look on his face in his gardening cloths. He bluntly tells Makir the news: "David wants to see Mephibosheth. NOW!" And there sits middle-aged Mephibosheth, sitting on his mat in the corner of the room by the cool breeze of a window. Even in the heat of the day, however, he feels a cold chill run through his arms and back. Now, finally, after all of these years, David’s found him and his life is over.

“It’s not fair,” he thinks. I mean, it’d started out great: his father was prince Jonathan, and his grandfather was King Saul, the first great king of Israel and Judah. He was royalty, and royalty had its perks. When he was young, everything seemed to come his way - the gifts, the friends, and the fun - all because he was royalty. Back then he even had a royal name, "Mirab Baal," meaning "opponent of Baal." Baal was a false god. But now even his name was different: Mephibosheth – “Son of Shame," all because of that one day when his world was turned upside-down.

Back then he didn’t understand it all. Suddenly, the palace became a place of panic. Wives wept, and servants were white with fear. Mephibosheth remembered how his nurse came running up to him with a few things in her hand yelling, "Run, Mirab Baal - run for your life!" But he didn't understand. So, he ran with her as hard as he could, but his little five year old legs could only go so far. He had to stop. And in desperation, his nurse picked him up and, with Mirab Baal in her arms, she ran. But she didn't notice the chariot rut just in front of her, and as her ankle buckled and she fell, Mirab Baal flew out of her hands and landed on his back with a thud. But seeing that Mirab Baal appeared to be alright, she picked him up and kept on hobbling on her sore ankle. She had to get the young prince into hiding. But it was only a short while later when she discovered that Mirab Baal was hurt much worse than she thought. In exhaustion, she put him on the ground hoping that he would run for a time, but all he did was fall. She begged him to stand up, but he couldn't. His back was broken; his feet and his legs utterly useless.

On the day that his dad Prince Jonathan, and his grandpa King Saul died in battle, Mirab Baal's life went terribly wrong. His nurse took him to Lo Debar, a city far away from the palace. To further protect the now-dethroned heir apparent, his name was changed from Mirab Baal to Mephibosheth; after all who would be interested in a person with a name like "Son of Shame." He had to learn how to live without his legs. Oh, they were still there but they didn’t do anything. He had to learn to sit again. He had to learn to be carried by others. He had to learn to be cared for by others. And his nurse continued to care for him, but living in secret, without his dad, without his grandpa, was hard, very hard, and hard for a very long time.

It wasn't fair. He’d heard his grandpa had badly disobeyed God: King Saul, again and again, had tried to kill David whom God had chosen to be king. King Saul had even gone to a witch to see if he could get some spiritual advice. As a result, grandpa Saul died, and so did his dad, Prince Jonathan, and Mirab Baal, now Mephibosheth, was left for years to fend for himself. Now, Ziba was at the door. "King David wants to see Mephibosheth. NOW!" And just then, a flash of anger ripped through Mephibosheth's fear. How did King David hear that he was here, anyway? There was only one answer - Ziba! Ziba was in charge of taking care of his property, and Ziba wanted the property for himself. So what better way than to rat out Mephibosheth so that the new king would eliminate him and leave all the property to Ziba.

But there was nothing Mephibosheth could do. His legs didn’t work. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t fight. He could only face the end of his life with honor. He was cursed. Because of his grandfather, everything had gone wrong for him, and at times he’d wished he’d never been born a prince. But there was no way of changing that now. Ziba was at the door, and soldiers, the king’s soldiers no less, had forced their way in past Makir. They picked him up by the arms and placed him on the muddy floor of a chariot and the cross-country race began to the city of Jerusalem. Without legs to cushion the shock of the rough ride, Mephibosheth's entire body ached.

When they arrived, they put him on the floor, down the steps from the throne where King David was seated. Mephibosheth stretched out his hands and put his face to the ground not daring to even look at the king. He hoped that the sword would fall quickly to end his life. “I am your servant.” His fear’s understandable. Though he may have been told that David was kind, what assurances did he have? And though the emissaries surely said that David meant no harm, he was afraid. I mean, wouldn’t you be? The anxiety was on his face that faced the floor, and David’s first words to him were, “Don’t be afraid.”

You know, your King is known to say the same thing, because the most repeated command from the lips of Jesus is, “Fear not.” In fact, the command to not be afraid appears in every book of the Bible. Mephibosheth had been called, found and rescued, but he still needed assurance. Don’t we all.

During the early days of the Civil War, a Union soldier was arrested on charges of desertion. Unable to prove his innocence, he was condemned and sentenced to die a deserter’s death. His appeal found its way to the desk of Abraham Lincoln. The President felt mercy for the soldier and signed his pardon. The soldier thereafter returned to service, fought the entirety of the war and was killed in the very last battle. Found within his breast pocket was the signed letter from the President. You see, close to the heart of the solder were his leader’s words of pardon. He had found courage in grace.

And just as David kept his promise to Jonathan, so God keeps his promise to us. The name Mephibosheth means “Son of Shame.” And that’s exactly what David intended to correct for the young prince. In quick succession, David returned all of Mephibosheth’s land, crops, and servants, and then insisted that the cripple eat at the king’s table – not just once but four (4) times. “I will give you back all the land of your grandfather Saul, and you will always eat at my table.” “But Mephibosheth, your master’s grandson, will always eat at my table.” “So Mephibosheth ate at David’s table as if he were one of the king’s sons.” “Mephibosheth lived in Jerusalem, because he always sat at the king’s table.”
(2 Sam. 9:7, 10, 11, 13)

Do you see your story in this? I see mine. We are children of royalty, crippled by the fall, permanently marred by sin, living parenthetical lives on earth only to be remembered by the King. Driven not by our beauty but by his promise, He calls us to Himself and invites us to take a permanent place at His table. And though we often limp more than we walk, we take our place next to the other sinners-made-saints and we share in God’s glory. Like Mephibosheth, we are sons and daughters of the King, and our greatest offering is nothing in comparison to what we’ve been given.

“Crippled” – it’s not a pejorative; it’s an adjective. It describes a noun. And you know what a noun is, don’t you? Right. A person, place or thing.

Grace,

Randy