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