Promises

Promises

From Paul, a slave of God and an apostle of Jesus Christ. I’m sent to bring about the faith of God’s chosen people and a knowledge of the truth that agrees with godliness. Their faith and this knowledge are based on the hope of eternal life that God, who doesn’t lie, promised before time began. (Titus 1:1-2)

King David’s life couldn’t have been better. Just crowned. His throne room has the smell of fresh paint, and his city architect is laying out new neighborhoods. God’s ark is in the tabernacle; gold and silver overflow the king’s treasury; Israel’s enemies keep their distance. The days of ducking Saul are a distant memory. But something stirs one of them. A comment, maybe, resurrects an old conversation. Maybe a familiar face jars a distant decision. Because in the midst of his new life, David remembers a promise from his old one: “Is there still anyone who is left of the house of Saul, that I may show him kindness for Jonathan’s sake?” (2 Sam. 9:1) Confusion furrows the faces in David’s court.

But why bother with the Saul’s kin? This is a new era, and a new administration. Who cares about the old guard? David does. He does because he remembers the covenant he made with Jonathan. When Saul threatened to kill David, Jonathan sought to save him. Jonathan succeeded and then made this request: “If I make it through this alive, continue to be my covenant friend. And if I die, keep the covenant friendship with my family — forever.” (1 Sam. 20:14–15) Jonathan does die. But David’s covenant doesn’t. No one would have thought twice had he let it, though. David had plenty of reasons to forget the promise he’d made with Jonathan. The two were young and idealistic. Who keeps the promises of youth? Saul was cruel and relentless. Who honors the children of a tyrant? David has a nation to rule. What king has time for such small matters? To David, however, a covenant is no small matter.

When you catalog the giants David faced, be sure the word promise survives the cut and makes the short list. It certainly appears on our lists of life’s most difficult challenges. The husband of a depressed wife knows the challenge of a promise. As she stumbles daily through a gloomy fog, he wonders what happened to the girl he married. Can you keep a promise in a time like this? The wife of a cheating husband asks the same. He’s back. He’s sorry. She’s hurt. She wonders, He broke his promise. . .  Do I keep mine? Parents have asked, too. Parents of prodigals. Parents of runaways. Parents of the handicapped and the disabled. Even parents of healthy toddlers have wondered how to keep a promise. Honeymoon moments and quiet evenings are buried underneath a mountain of dirty diapers and short nights. Promises. We can never escape their shadow. But David, it seems, didn’t attempt to.

Finding a descendant of Jonathan wasn’t easy, however. No one in David’s circle knew one. Advisers summoned Ziba, a former servant of Saul. Did he know of a surviving member of Saul’s household? He did, but listen to Ziba’s answer: “Yes, one of Jonathan’s sons is still alive, but he is crippled.” (2 Sam. 9:3) Ziba mentions no name, just points out that the boy is lame. You sense a thinly veiled disclaimer in his words. “Be careful, David. He isn’t — how would you say? — suited for the palace. You might think twice about keeping that promise.”

Ziba gives no details about the boy, but the fourth chapter of 2 Samuel does. The person in question is the son of Jonathan, Mephibosheth. When Mephibosheth was five years old, his father and grandfather died at the hands of the Philistines. Knowing their brutality, the family of Saul headed for the hills. Mephibosheth’s nurse snatched him up and ran, but in her haste tripped and dropped the boy, breaking both his ankles, leaving him incurably lame. Escaping servants carried him across the Jordan River to an inhospitable village called Lo Debar. The name means “without pasture.” Picture something like Death Valley. Mephibosheth hid there, first out of fear of the Philistines, then for fear of David.

Collect the sad details of Mephibosheth’s life: born the rightful heir to the throne; victimized by a fall; left with halting feet in a foreign land; living under the threat of death. Victimized. Ostracized. Disabled. Uncultured. “Are you sure?” Ziba’s reply insinuates, “Are you sure you want the likes of this boy in your palace?” David’s sure.

Servants drive a stretch limo across the Jordan River and knock on the door of the shack. They explain their business, load Mephibosheth into the car, and carry him into the palace. The boy assumes the worst. He enters the presence of David with the enthusiasm of a death-row inmate entering the gas chamber. The boy bows low and asks, “Who am I that you pay attention to a stray dog like me?” David then called in Ziba, Saul’s right-hand man, and told him, “Everything that belonged to Saul and his family, I’ve handed over to your master’s grandson . . . . from now on [he] will take all his meals at my table.” (2 Sam. 9:8–10) Faster than you can say Mephibosheth, he gets promoted from Lo Debar to the king’s table. Good-bye, obscurity. Hello, royalty and realty. The thing is that David could have sent money to Lo Debar – a lifelong annuity would have generously fulfilled his promise. But David gave Mephibosheth more than a pension; he gave him a place — a place at the king’s table.

So with that, look closely at the new family portrait hanging over David’s fireplace. David sits enthroned in the center, flanked by way too many wives. Just in front of tanned and handsome Absalom, right next to the drop-dead beauty of Tamar, down the row from bookish Solomon, you’ll see Mephibosheth, the grandson of Saul, the son of Jonathan, leaning on his crutches and smiling as if he’d just won the Jerusalem lottery. Which, in fact, he had. The kid who had no legs to stand on now has everything to live for. Why? Because he impressed David? Convinced David? Coerced David? No, Mephibosheth did nothing. A promise prompted David. The king is kind, not because the boy is deserving, but because the promise is enduring. And if you need further proof, follow the life of Mephibosheth. He resurfaces fifteen years later during the drama of Absalom’s rebellion.

Absalom, a rebellious curse of a kid, forces David to flee Jerusalem. It’s a Coup d’état. The king escapes in disgrace with only a few faithful friends. Guess who’s numbered among them. Mephibosheth? You’d think so, but he isn’t. It’s Ziba, instead, and Ziba tells David that Mephibosheth has sided with the enemy. The story progresses, Absalom perishes, and David returns to Jerusalem, where Mephibosheth gives the king another version of the story. He meets David wearing a ragged beard and dirty clothing. Ziba, he claims, abandoned him in Jerusalem and wouldn’t put him on a horse so he could escape with David and his small entourage. Well then, who’s telling the truth? Ziba or Mephibosheth? One is obviously lying. So, which one is it? We don’t know.

We don’t know because David never asks. He never asks, because it doesn’t matter. If Mephibosheth tells the truth, he stays. If he lies, he stays. His place in the palace depends, not on his behavior, but on David’s promise. What? Why is David so loyal? Loyalty is one thing, but this? How can he be so loyal? Mephibosheth brings nothing and takes a lot. Where does David get that kind of resolve? Were we able to ask David how he fulfilled his giant-of-a-promise, he might take us from his story to God’s story, because God sets the standard for covenant keeping.

As Moses told the Israelites: “Know this: God, your God, is God indeed, a God you can depend upon. He keeps his covenant of loyal love with those who love him and observe his commandments for a thousand generations.” (Deut. 7:9) God makes and never breaks his promises. The Hebrew word for covenant, beriyth, means “a solemn agreement with binding force.” His irrevocable covenant runs like a scarlet thread through the tapestry of Scripture.

Remember his promise to Noah? “I establish my covenant with you: Never again will all life be cut off by the waters of a flood; never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth.” And God said, “This is the sign of the covenant I am making between me and you and every living creature with you, a covenant for all generations to come: I have set my rainbow in the clouds, and it will be the sign of the covenant between me and the earth.” (Gen. 9:11–13) Every rainbow reminds us of God’s covenant. Interestingly, rainbows – when situated far above the horizon – form a complete circle. God’s promises are equally unbroken and unending. Or, consider the case of Hosea.

Seven hundred years before the birth of Jesus, God commanded Hosea to marry a prostitute named Gomer. (If her profession didn’t get you, her name probably would) Still, Hosea obeyed. Gomer gave birth to three children, none of whom were Hosea’s. Gomer then left Hosea for a life equivalent to a call girl at a strip club. Rock bottom came when she was in an auction pit where men bid on her as a slave. Lesser men would have waved her off. Not Hosea. He jumped into the bidding and bought his wife and took her home again. Why? Here’s Hosea’s explanation. “Then God ordered me, ‘Start all over: Love your wife again, your wife who’s in bed with her latest boyfriend, your cheating wife. Love her the way I, God, love the Israelite people, even as they flirt and party with every god that takes their fancy.’ I did it. I paid good money to get her back. It cost me the price of a slave.” (Hos. 3:1–2)

Need a picture of our promise-keeping God? Look at Hosea buying back his wife. Look at the rainbow. Or look at Mephibosheth. I know that you’ve never introduced yourself as Mephibosheth from Lo Debar before, but you probably could. Recall the details of his disaster? He was born the rightful heir to the throne, but was victimized by a fall that left him with halting feet in a foreign land where he lived under the threat of death. Sound familiar? That’s our story, isn’t it?

Aren’t we children of the King? Haven’t we been left hobbling because of the stumble of Adam and Eve? Who among us hasn’t meandered along the dry sands of Lo Debar? But then came the palace messenger. Maybe it was a fourth-grade teacher, or a high school buddy, maybe an aunt, or even a televangelist. They came with big news and an awaiting limo. “You’re not going to believe this,” they announce, “but the King of Israel has a place for you at his table. Your place card is printed, and the chair’s empty. He wants you in his family.”

Why? Because of your IQ? God doesn’t need your brains – he created you. Your retirement account? Not worth a dime to God. Your organizational skills? Sure. Like the architect of the universe needs your advice. Sorry, Mephibosheth. Your invitation has nothing to do with you and everything to do with God. He made a promise to give you eternal life: “God, who never lies, promised this eternal life before the world began.” (Titus 1:2)

Your eternal life is covenant caused, covenant secured, and covenant based. You can put Lo Debar in the rearview mirror for one reason — God keeps his promises. So, shouldn’t God’s promise-keeping inspire yours? Heaven knows we could all use some inspiration. Let’s face it, people can be exhausting. And there are times when all we can do is still not enough. When a spouse chooses to leave, we can’t force him or her to stay. When a spouse abuses, we shouldn’t stay. The best of love can go unrequited. And I’m not for a moment minimizing the challenges some of you may be facing. You’re tired. You’re angry. You’re disappointed. This isn’t the marriage you expected, or the life you wanted. But looming in your past is a promise you made. So, will you keep it? Will you give it one more try?

But then again, why should you? So you can understand the depth of God’s love. When you love the unloving, you get a glimpse of what God does for you. When you keep the porch light on for the prodigal child, when you do what is right even though you have been done wrong, when you love the weak and the sick, you do what God does every single moment. Covenant-keeping enrolls you in the postgraduate school of God’s love. Maybe that’s why God’s given you that promise-keeping challenge.

Because when you love liars, cheaters, and heartbreakers, aren’t you doing what God has done for you? Pay attention, and take notes about your struggles. God invites you to understand his love, but he also wants you to illustrate it. David did with Mephibosheth. David was a walking parable of God’s loyalty. Hosea did the same with Gomer. He modeled the power of a promise kept. And God calls on you to do the same.

So, illustrate stubborn love. Imbue incarnate fidelity. God is giving you a Mephibosheth-sized chance to show your children and your neighbors what real love does. Embrace it, because who knows? Maybe someone will talk about your story of loyalty to illustrate the loyalty of God. Oh, and remember the family portrait in David’s palace? I doubt David had one; that was just a word picture. But I think heaven just might. And if so, won’t it be great to see your face in that picture? Sharing the frame with folks like Moses and Martha, Peter and Paul . . . there’ll you be, maybe standing next to Mephibosheth.

And if so, he likely won’t be the only one grinning.

Grace,

Randy

Omnipresent

Omnipresent

Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain where Jesus told them to go. When they saw him, they worshipped him, but some doubted. Jesus came near and spoke to them, “I’ve received all authority in heaven and on earth. Therefore, go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to obey everything that I’ve commanded you. Look, I myself will be with you every day until the end of this present age.” (Matthew 28:16-20)

One man’s dead, the other’s dancing. One’s flat on the ground, the other’s leaping in the air. The dead man is Uzzah, the priest. The dancing man is David, the king. And readers of 2 Samuel don’t really know what to do with either one them. Maybe a little background will help.

The death of the first, and the dancing of the second, had something do with the ark of the covenant: a rectangular box commissioned by God and built during Moses’ lifetime. The chest, or box, wasn’t large at all: just three feet, nine inches tall by two feet, three inches wide. And a trio of the most precious of Hebrew artifacts were inside: a gold jar of unspoiled manna, Aaron’s walking stick that had budded long after it was cut, and the precious stone tablets that had felt the engraving finger of God. A heavy golden plate, called the mercy seat, served as a lid to the chest. Two cherubim of gold, with outstretched wings, faced each other and looked down on the golden lid. They represented the majesty of Jehovah watching over the law and the needs of His people. The ark symbolized God’s provision (the manna), God’s power (the staff), God’s precepts (the commandments), and, most of all, God’s presence.

During the temple era, the high priest would be granted a once-a-year audience with God at the ark. After offering personal sacrifices of repentance, he would enter the holy of holies with, according to Jewish legend, a rope tied to his ankle should he perish from the presence of God and need to be removed from this very special place.

So, with this in mind, can you overstate the significance of the ark? Hardly. For instance, what if we had the manger where Jesus was born? Or, the cross? If we had the very cross on which Jesus was crucified, wouldn’t we cherish it? You’d think so. So, you wonder why the Israelites didn’t cherish the ark of the covenant. Stunningly, they let it gather dust for thirty years in the house of a priest who lived seven miles west of Jerusalem. The very presence of God. Neglected. Ignored. Stored in a basement … for 30 years.

But David determines to change all of that. After he settles into the city of Jerusalem, the new capital of Israel, he makes the return of the ark his top priority. He plans a Macy’s-caliber parade and invites thirty thousand Hebrews to attend. They gather near the home of Abinadab, the priest. His two sons, Uzzah and Ahio, are put in charge of transportation.

They load the ark on an ox-drawn wagon and begin the march. Trumpets blast, songs erupt, and all goes well for about the first two miles, when they hit a rough patch in the road. The oxen stumble, the wagon shakes and the ark shifts. Uzzah, thinking the holy chest is about to fall off the wagon, extends his hand to steady it. Immediately, heaven Uzis Uzzah, “and he died.” (2 Sam. 6:7) That kind of thing can put a damper on a parade pretty quickly. And, it does.

Everyone goes home. Deeply distressed, David returns to Jerusalem, and the ark is kept at the home of Obed-Edom while David sorts things out. Apparently, he succeeds, because at the end of three months David returns, reclaims the ark, and resumes the parade. This time there’s no death. There’s dancing, instead. David enters Jerusalem with rejoicing – “David danced before the Lord with all his might.” (6:14)

Two men. One dead. The other dancing. What does that teach us, if anything? Perhaps more specifically, what do these events teach us about invoking the presence of God? That’s exactly what David wanted to know, too: “How can the ark of the Lord come to me?” (6:9)

This is one giant-sized issue, isn’t it? Because it begs the question as to whether God is just some sort of distant deity? Mothers ask, “How can the presence of God come over my children?” Fathers wonder, “How can God’s presence fill my house?” And churches crave the touching, helping, healing presence of God in their midst. So, should we light a candle, sing chants, build an altar, head up a committee, or give a barrelful of money to get God to come down and be with us? What, exactly, invokes the presence of God? The story of Uzzah and David blend both death and dancing to reveal the answer to that question.

Uzzah’s tragedy teaches us this: God comes on his terms. He gave specific instructions in connection with the care and transport of the ark. Only the priests could get close to it, and then only after they had offered sacrifices for themselves and for their families. (Lev. 16) The ark would be lifted, not with hands, but with acacia poles – priests ran long rods through the rings on the corners to carry the ark. “The Kohathites will come and carry these things to the next destination. But they must not touch the sacred objects, or they will die. . . . they were required to carry the sacred objects of the Tabernacle on their shoulders.” (Num. 4:15; 7:9)

And Uzzah should have known this. He was a priest, a Kohathite priest, a descendant of Aaron himself – the first high priest. Further, the ark had been kept in the house of Uzzah’s father, Abinadab. So he’d grown up with it. Which may be the best explanation for his actions. He gets word that the king wants the chest and says, “Sure, I’ll get it. We keep it out back in the barn. Let’s load it up.” The holy has become humdrum. The sacred has become second-rate. Uzzah exchanges commands for convenience, uses a wagon instead of poles, and bulls instead of priests. We don’t see any obedience or sacrifice; we see expediency. And God is angered.

The image of a dead Uzzah sends a sobering and shuddering reminder to those of us who can attend church as often as we wish, and take communion anytime we desire. The message? We shouldn’t grow lax before the holy. God won’t be loaded onto convenient wagons, or dragged around by dumb animals. Don’t confuse him with a genie who pops out by rubbing a lamp, or a butler who appears at the ringing of a bell. God comes, mind you. But he comes on his own terms. He comes when commands are revered, hearts are clean and confession is made.

But what about the second figure, David? What is the message from the other man dancing? David’s initial response to the slaying of Uzzah was anything but joyful. He retreated to Jerusalem, confused and hurt, “angry because the Lord had punished Uzzah in his anger.” (1 Chron. 13:11) Three months pass before David returns for the ark. But he does so with an entirely different protocol. Priests replace bulls. Sacrifice replaces convenience. Levites prepare “themselves for service to the Lord.” They use “special poles to carry the Ark of God on their shoulders, as Moses had commanded, just as the Lord had said they should.” (1 Chron. 15:14–15) No one hurries. No one’s expedient. This time, they choose to do it God’s way.

“Whenever those bearing the chest advanced six steps, David sacrificed an ox and a fattened calf. David, dressed in a linen priestly vest, danced with all his strength before the Lord. This is how David and the entire house of Israel brought up the Lord’s chest with shouts and trumpet blasts.” (2 Sam. 6:13-15) And when David realized that God wasn’t angry, he “danced with all his strength ….” (6:14) Not some little toe-tapping, finger-snapping routine, or swaying back and forth, holding hands and singing Kumbaya. The Hebrew term portrays David as hopping and leaping. Forget a token shuffle, or an obligatory waltz. David the giant-killer is like the mayor of Dublin on Saint Patrick’s Day: dancing at the head of the parade.

And, if that’s not enough, he strips down to the ephod, the linen prayer vest. It covers about the same amount of territory as a long T-shirt. So, right there in front of God and the altar and everyone else, David removes every kingly thing – right down to his holy skivvies. And as David dances, we duck. We hold our breath because we know what’s coming. We’ve read about Uzzah. We know what God does to the irreverent and cocky. Apparently, David wasn’t paying attention because there he is, in the full presence of God and God’s children, doing a jig in his underwear. Hold your breath and call the undertaker. It’s been nice knowing you, David.

But nothing happens. The sky is silent, and David keeps twirling, and we’re left wondering: doesn’t his dancing bother God? What does David have that Uzzah didn’t? Why isn’t the heavenly Father angered? Interestingly, the scripture doesn’t portray David dancing at any other time. For instance, he didn’t tap dance on Goliath’s grave, or pirouette in front of the Philistines. He didn’t inaugurate his term as king with a waltz at the inaugural ball, or dedicate Jerusalem with a jazz dance competition. But when God came to town, he couldn’t sit still.

Maybe God wonders how we can. Don’t we want what David wanted? The presence of God? Jesus promised, “I myself will be with you every day until the end of this present age.” (Matt. 28:20) Yet, how long has it been since we rolled back the rug and celebrated the night away because of that promise? His very presence. What did David know that maybe we don’t? What did he remember that maybe we’ve forgotten? In a sentence, it’s this: God’s present is his presence.

God’s greatest gift is himself. Sunsets may steal our breath, and the Caribbean blue may still our hearts. Newborn babies stir our tears, and life-long love bejewels our lives. But take all these away — strip away the sunsets, the oceans, the cooing babies, and the tender hearts — and leave us in the Sahara, and we still have reason to dance in the sand. Why? Because God is with us. He is omnipresent – present in all places at all times. Ubiquitous.

Maybe that’s what David knew. And maybe that’s what God wants us to know, too – that we’re never alone. Ever. God loves you too much to leave you alone, so he hasn’t. He hasn’t left you alone with your fears, or your worries, or your disease, or your death. So kick up your heels for joy and dance! David was so thrilled that he “blessed the people in the name of the Lord Almighty. Then he gave a gift of food to every man and woman in Israel: a loaf of bread, a cake of dates, and a cake of raisins.” (2 Sam. 6:18–19) It was a regular party! God was with them. And God’s with us. That’s reason to celebrate. Uzzah, it seems, must have missed that point.

Uzzah had a small view of a small god; a god who fit in a box and needed help with his balance. So Uzzah didn’t prepare for him. He didn’t purify himself to encounter the holy: no sacrifice was offered, no commandments were observed. Forget the repentance and the obedience stuff. Just load God in the back of the wagon, and let’s get going. In our case maybe it’s living like we want for six days and then cashing in on Sunday grace. For others, maybe it’s who cares what you believe – just wear a cross around your neck for good luck. Or, perhaps, light a few candles and say a few prayers and get God on your side.

Uzzah’s lifeless body cautions us against that kind of irreverence. No awe of God leads to the death of man. God won’t be cajoled, commanded, conjured up, or called down. He’s a personal God who loves and heals and helps and intervenes. But God doesn’t respond to magic potions or clever slogans. He looks for more. He looks for reverence, obedience, and God-hungry hearts. And when he sees them, he comes. And when he comes, let the celebration begin! And, yes, a reverent heart and a dancing foot can belong to the same person. David had both.

Do you?

Grace,

Randy

Nevertheless

Nevertheless

And the king and his men went to Jerusalem against the Jebusites, the inhabitants of the land, who spoke to David, saying, “You shall not come in here; but the blind and the lame will repel you,” . . . Nevertheless David took the stronghold of Zion (that is, the City of David). Now David said on that day, “Whoever climbs up by way of the water shaft and defeats the Jebusites . . .he shall be chief and captain.” . . . Then David dwelt in the stronghold, and called it the City of David. (2 Sam. 5:6–9)

Pete sits on the street and leans his head against the wall. He’d like to beat his head against it. He just messed up again. Everyone misspeaks occasionally, but Pete does it daily. He blurts wrong words like a whoopee cushion – spewing ugly noises everywhere. He always hurts someone, but tonight he’d just hurt his best friend.

Then, there’s Joe and his failures. The poor guy can’t keep a job. His career is like Palomar Mountain — up, down; cold, hot; lush, barren. He tried his hand at the family business. They fired him. So, he tried his skills as a facilities manager. Got canned and jailed, to boot. Now, he sits in prison and his future’s as bleak as the Kilimanjaro. No one could fault him for feeling insecure; he’s failed at each and every opportunity he’s been given.

So has she — not at work, but at marriage. Her first one failed. So did her second. By the collapse of the third, she knew the names of the court clerk’s grandkids. If her fourth trip to divorce court didn’t convince her, the fifth removed all doubt. She’s a marital flop.

People and their proverbial hang-ups. Pete speaks before he thinks. Joe fails where he should succeed. And the dear woman wins at marriage as often as a Prius at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. And you? Is there one prevailing problem that leeches your life? Some are prone to cheat. Others are quick to doubt. Maybe you’re a worrier. Sure, everyone worries some, but you own the national distributorship on anxiety. Or, maybe you’re judgmental. Everybody can be a little critical, but you pass more judgments than the Supreme Court. Where does Satan have a stronghold within you?

Stronghold: a fortress, citadel, thick walls and tall gates. It’s as if the devil staked a claim on one weakness and constructed a fortress around it. “You’re not touching this flaw,” he defies heaven, placing himself squarely between God’s help and your explosive temper, or fragile self-image, or freezer-sized appetite, or distrust for authority. Seasons come and go, but this Loch Ness monster still lurks in the water-bottom of your soul. He just won’t go away. He lives up to both sides of his compound name: strong enough to grip like a vise, and stubborn enough to hold on. He clamps on like a bear trap — the harder you shake, the more it hurts.

Strongholds: old, difficult, discouraging challenges. That’s what David faced when he looked at Jerusalem. Now, when you and I think of the city, we envision temples and prophets. We picture Jesus teaching, and a New Testament church growing. We imagine a thriving, hub-of-history capital. But when David saw Jerusalem in 1,000 BC, he saw something else. He saw a millennium-old, cheerless fortress, squatting defiantly on the spine of a ridge of hills. A rugged outcropping elevates her. Tall walls protect her. Jebusites indwell her. And no one bothers the Jebusites. Philistines fight the Amalekites. Amalekites fight the Hebrews. But the Jebusites? They’re a coiled rattlesnake in the desert. Everyone leaves them alone. Everyone, that is, except David.

The just-crowned king of Israel has his eye on Jerusalem. He’s inherited a divided kingdom from his predecessor, Saul. The people need not just a strong leader, but a strong headquarters. David’s 7½ year headquarters in Hebron sits too far south to enlist the loyalties of the northern tribes. But if he moves north, he’ll isolate the south. He seeks a neutral, centralized city. He wants Jerusalem. And we can only wonder how many times he’s stared at her walls. He grew up in Bethlehem, only a day’s walk to the south, and he hid in the caves in the region of En-Gedi, not much farther away. Surely he’d noticed Jerusalem. Somewhere he pegged the place as the perfect capital. The crown had scarcely been re-sized for his head when he set his eyes on his newest Goliath.

So, the king and his men went to Jerusalem against the Jebusites, the inhabitants of the land, who spoke to David, saying, “’You shall not come in here; but the blind and the lame will repel you,’” . . . Nevertheless David took the stronghold of Zion (that is, the City of David). Now David said on that day, ‘Whoever climbs up by way of the water shaft and defeats the Jebusites . . .he shall be chief and captain.’ . . . Then David dwelt in the stronghold, and called it the City of David.” (2 Sam. 5:6–9) This regrettably brief story tantalizes us with the twofold appearance of the term stronghold.

In verse 7, “David took the stronghold,” and in verse 9, “David dwelt in the stronghold.” And Jerusalem meets the qualifications of a stronghold: an old, difficult, and discouraging fortress. From atop the turrets, Jebusite soldiers have ample time to shoot arrows at any would-be wall climbers. And discouraging? Just listen to the way the city-dwellers taunt David: “You’ll never get in here. . . . Even the blind and lame could keep you out!” (5:6) The Jebusites pour scorn on David like Satan dumps buckets of discouragement on you: “You’ll never overcome your bad habits.” “Think you can overcome your addiction? Think again.”

If you’ve heard the mocking David heard, your story needs the word David’s has. Did you see it? Most hurry past it. But it’s a twelve-letter masterpiece. It’s the word, Nevertheless. “Nevertheless David took the stronghold . . . .” Granted, the city was old. The walls were difficult. The voices were discouraging . . . . “Nevertheless David took the stronghold.”

Wouldn’t you love God to write a nevertheless in your biography? Born to alcoholics, nevertheless he led a sober life. Never went to college, nevertheless she became a successful entrepreneur. Didn’t read the Bible until retirement age, nevertheless he came to a deep and abiding faith in God.

We all need a nevertheless. And God has plenty to go around. Strongholds mean nothing to him. Remember Paul’s words? “We use God’s mighty weapons, not mere worldly weapons, to knock down the Devil’s strongholds.” (2 Cor. 10:4) You and I fight with toothpicks; God comes with battering rams and cannons. And what he did for David, he can do for us. The question is, will we do what David did? The king models it in this story.

In short, David turns a deaf ear to old voices. Those mockers strutting on the wall tops? David ignores them. He dismisses their words and goes about his work. Nehemiah, on these same walls, took an identical approach. In his case, however, he was atop the stones, and the mockers stood below. Fast-forward 500 years from David’s time, and you will see that the bulwarks of Jerusalem are in ruins, and many of its people are living in foreign captivity. Nehemiah heads up a building program to restore the fortifications. Critics tell him to stop. They plan to interfere with his work. They list all the reasons the stones can’t, and therefore shouldn’t, be restacked. But Nehemiah doesn’t listen to them: “I am doing a great work, so that I cannot come down. Why should the work cease while I leave it and go down to you?” (Neh. 6:3) Nehemiah knew how to press the mute button on his dissenters.

Jesus did too. He responded to Satan’s temptations with three terse sentences and three Bible verses. He didn’t dialogue with the devil. When Peter told Christ to side-step the cross, Jesus wouldn’t entertain the thought. “Get behind Me, Satan!” (Matt. 16:23) A crowd of people ridiculed what he said about a young girl: “‘The girl is not dead, only asleep.’ But the people laughed at him.” (Matt. 9:24) And what did Jesus do with the naysayers? He silenced them. “After the crowd had been thrown out of the house, Jesus went into the girl’s room and took hold of her hand, and she stood up.” (9:25)

David, Nehemiah and Jesus practiced selective listening. So, what if we did the same? Because two types of thoughts continually vie for our attention. One says, “Yes, you can.” The other says, “No, you can’t.” One says, “God will help you.” The other lies, “God has left you.” One speaks the language of heaven; the other deceives in the vernacular of the Jebusites. One proclaims God’s strengths; the other lists your failures. One longs to build you up; the other seeks to tear you down.

And here’s the great news: you can select the voice you hear. So, why listen to the mockers? Why heed their voices? Why give ear to pea-brains and scoffers when you can, with the same ear, listen to the voice of God?

Do what David did. Turn a deaf ear to old voices. And, as you do, open your eyes to new choices. When everyone else saw walls, David saw tunnels. That’s how he conquered Jerusalem – he attacked them by coming up from within rather than confronting them from without. Others focused on the obvious. David searched for the unusual. Since he did what no one expected, he achieved what no one imagined.

David found fresh hope in a hole outside the Jerusalem walls. So can you. In fact, not far from David’s tunnel lies the purported tomb of Christ. What David’s tunnel did for him, the tomb of Jesus can do for you. “God’s power is very great for us who believe. That power is the same as the great strength God used to raise Christ from the dead and put him at his right side in the heavenly world.” (Eph. 1:19) Do what David did. Turn a deaf ear to the old voices. Open a wide eye to the new choices. Who knows, you may be a prayer away from a nevertheless. God loves to give them. He gave one to Pete. Remember him?

Speak-now-and-think-later Pete? God released Satan’s stronghold on his tongue. For proof, read Peter’s Pentecost sermon in Acts 2. God turned impetuous Peter into the apostle Peter. (Luke 22:54–62) And Joe, the failure? Fired by his family. Jailed by his employer . . . Can Jobless Joe ever amount to anything? Joseph did. He became prime minister of Egypt. (Gen. 37–50) Or, what about the five-time divorcée? The woman whom men discarded, Jesus discipled. Last report was that she had introduced her entire village to Christ. The Samaritan woman was Jesus’s first missionary. (John 4:1–42) All just further proof that “God’s mighty weapons . . . knock down the Devil’s strongholds.” (2 Cor. 10:4)

Peter stuck his foot in his mouth. Joseph was imprisoned in Egypt. The Samaritan woman had been married five times. Jesus was dead in the grave . . . . Nevertheless, Peter preached, Joseph ruled, the woman shared, and Jesus rose.

And you? Go ahead and fill in the blank. With God’s help, your nevertheless awaits you.

Grace,

Randy