Too Busy
So David went up by the ascent of the Mount of Olives, and wept as he
went up; and he had his head covered and went barefoot. And all the people who
were with him covered their heads and went up, weeping as they went up. (2 Sam. 15:30)
David looks older than his 60+ years.
His shoulders slump; his head hangs. He shuffles like an old man. He struggles
to place one foot in front of the other. He pauses often – partly because the
hill is steep; partly because he needs to weep. This is the longest path he’s
ever walked. Longer than the one from the creekside to Goliath. Longer than the
winding road from fugitive to king, or even the guilty road from conviction to confession.
Those trails had some steep turns to be sure. But none of them compared with
the ascent up the Mount of Olives.
He doesn’t wear a crown – his son Absalom
has taken it by force. He has no home – those walls rising at his back belong
to the city of Jerusalem. He’s fled the capital he established. Who wouldn’t cry
at a time like this? No throne. No home. Jerusalem behind him and the wilderness
ahead of him. What happened? Did he lose a war? Was Israel ravaged by Ebola?
Did famine starve his loved ones and drain his strength? How does a king end up
old and lonely on an uphill path? Just ask his wives and kids.
If you were to ask David about his kids, he’d probably
wince. Fourteen years
have passed since David seduced Bathsheba, and thirteen years since Nathan told
David, “The sword will never depart from your house.” (2 Sam. 12:10) Nathan’s
prophecy has proven painfully true. One of David’s sons, Amnon, fell in lust
with his half-sister Tamar, one of David’s daughters by another marriage. Amnon
craved, connived, and then raped Tamar. And after the rape, he kicked her to
the curb like yesterday’s garbage.
Tamar, understandably, fell apart.
She threw ashes on her head and tore the robe of many colors worn by virgin
daughters of the king. She “remained desolate in her brother Absalom’s house.”
(13:20) And the next verse tells us David’s response to his son’s brutality:
“When King David heard of all these things, he was very angry.”
That’s it? That’s all? We want a
longer verse. We want a few verbs. Confront will do. Punish
would be nice. Banish
would be even better. We expect to read, “David was very angry
and . . . confronted Amnon, or punished Amnon, or banished Amnon.” But what did David do to
Amnon? Nothing. No lecture. No penalty. No imprisonment. No dressing down. No
chewing out. David did nothing to Amnon. And, even worse, he did nothing for
Tamar. She needed his protection, his affirmation and validation. She needed a
dad. But what she got was silence.
So Absalom, her brother, filled the
void created by David’s passivity. He sheltered his sister and plotted against Amnon.
And then, one night, Absalom got Amnon drunk and had him killed. So, in just
one family we have incest; deceit; one daughter raped; one son dead; another
with blood on his hands. David’s is a palace in turmoil. Again it was time for
David to step up. You know, display his Goliath-killing courage, or Saul-pardoning
mercy, or even Brook-Besor leadership. David’s family needed to see the best of
David. But they saw none of David. He didn’t intervene or even respond. He wept,
instead, in complete solitude.
Absalom interpreted David’s silence and
inaction as anger and fled Jerusalem to hide in his grandfather’s house. And David
made no attempt to see his son. For three years they lived in two separate
cities. Absalom eventually returned to Jerusalem, but David continued to refuse
to see him. Absalom even married and had four children. “Absalom dwelt two full
years in Jerusalem, but did not see the king’s face.” (14:28) Frankly, that
kind of shunning couldn’t have been easy. Jerusalem was a small town. Avoiding
Absalom likely demanded daily planning and spying. But David succeeded in
neglecting his son. More accurately, he neglected all his kids.
A passage from later in his life reveals
David’s parenting philosophy. One of his sons, Adonijah, had staged a coup. He
assembled chariots and horsemen and personal bodyguards to take the throne. And
did David object? Are you kidding? David “never crossed him at any time by
asking, ‘Why have you done so?’” (1 Kings 1:6) David, the Homer Simpson of
biblical dads. The picture of passivity. So, when we ask him about his kids, he
groans. But when we ask him about his wives, his face goes chalky white.
We began to suspect trouble back in 2
Samuel chapter 3. What initially appears as just another dull genealogy is
actually a parade of red flags. Sons were
born to David at Hebron. The first was Amnon, whose mother was Ahinoam from
Jezreel. The second son was Kileab, whose mother was Abigail, the widow of
Nabal from Carmel. The third son was Absalom, whose mother was Maacah daughter
of Talmai, the king of Geshur. The fourth son was Adonijah, whose mother was
Haggith. The fifth son was Shephatiah, whose mother was Abital. The sixth son
was Ithream, whose mother was Eglah, David’s wife. These sons were born to
David at Hebron. (vv. 2–5)
Count them. Six wives. Add to this
list Michal, his first wife, and Bathsheba, his most famous wife, and David had
eight spouses — too many to give each one even a day a week. And the situation
worsens as we uncover a passage buried deep in David’s family Bible. After
listing the names of his sons, the genealogist adds, “These were all the sons
of David, besides the sons of the concubines.” (1 Chron. 3:9) The concubines? Yep.
David fathered other children through other mothers, and we don’t even know how
many. And what about the girls? We know about Tamar, but were there others?
Probably, and the cynical side of us wonders if David even knew how many kids
he actually had. What was he thinking?
David did so much so well. He unified
the twelve tribes into one nation. He masterminded military conquests. He
founded the capital city and elevated God as the Lord of the people, bringing
the ark to Jerusalem and paving the way for the temple. He wrote poetry we
still read, and psalms we still sing. But when it came to his family, David was
MIA. Going AWOL on his family was David’s greatest failure. Oh, seducing
Bathsheba was an inexcusable but explicable act of passion. Or, murdering Uriah
was a ruthless yet predictable deed from a desperate heart. But passive parenting
and widespread philandering? These were not sins of a lazy afternoon, or the deranged
reactions of self-defense. David’s family foul-up was a lifelong stupor that
cost him dearly.
Because do you remember Absalom?
David finally reunited with him, but by then it was too late. The seeds of bitterness
had grown deep roots. Absalom resolved to overthrow his father. He recruited from
David’s army and staged a coup. His takeover set the stage for the sad walk of David
out of Jerusalem — up the Mount of Olives and into the wilderness. No crown. No
city. Just a heavy-hearted, lonely, old man. Loyalists eventually chased
Absalom down. And when he tried to escape on horseback, his long hair got tangled
in a tree, and soldiers speared him to death. When David hears the news he falls
to pieces: “O my son Absalom — my son, my
son Absalom — if only I had died in your place! O Absalom my son, my son!”
(18:33) Tardy tears.
David succeeded everywhere except at
home. And if you don’t succeed at home, do you succeed at all? How do we
explain David’s disastrous household? How do we explain David’s silence when it
comes to his family? No psalms were ever written about his children. And surely,
out of all his wives, you’d think that at least one would have been worthy of a
sonnet or song. But he never talked about them. Aside from the prayer he
offered for Bathsheba’s baby, Scripture gives no indication that he ever prayed
for his family. He prayed about the Philistines. He interceded for his soldiers.
He offered prayers for Jonathan, his friend. He even prayed for Saul, his
archrival. But as far as his family was concerned, it’s as if they never even existed.
Was David just too busy to notice
them? Maybe. He had a city to settle and a kingdom to build. Was he too
important to care for them? “Let the wives raise the kids; I’ll lead the nation,”
perhaps he rationalized. Was he too guilty to shepherd them? After all, how
could David, who had seduced Bathsheba and then intoxicated and murdered Uriah,
correct his sons when they raped and murdered themselves? Too busy. Too
important. Too guilty. And now? Too late. A dozen exits too late. But it’s not
too late for you and me.
Your home is your giant-sized privilege,
your towering priority. Don’t make David’s tragic mistake. He collected wives like
trophies. He saw spouses as a means to his pleasure, not a part of God’s plan.
Don’t make his mistake. Be fiercely loyal to your spouse. You’ve made a promise.
Keep it. And, as you do, nourish the children God may have given you.
Quiet heroes dot the landscape of our
society. They don’t wear ribbons or kiss trophies; they wear spit-up and kiss boo-boo’s.
They don’t make the headlines, but they check the outlines and stand on the
sidelines. You won’t find their names on the Nobel Prize short list, but you’ll find their names on the homeroom
and carpool lists. News programs don’t call them. But that’s okay because their
kids do . . . They call her Mom. They call him Dad. Be numbered among them.
Your children are not your hobby;
they are your calling. Your spouse is not your trophy; she or he is your treasure.
Don’t pay the price David paid, because if you flip ahead a few chapters to his
final hours, you’ll see the ultimate cost David paid for a neglected family.
David is hours from death. A chill
has set in that blankets just can’t help. So, servants decide he needs a person
to warm him, someone to hold him tight as he takes his final breaths. But do
they turn to one of his wives? Nope. Do they call on one of his kids? Uh-uh.
They “looked in every corner of Israel until they found
Abishag from Shunem. They brought her to the king. She
was very beautiful. She cared for the king and served him, but the king didn’t
have sex with her.” (1 Kings 1:3–4) I suspect that David would have
traded all his conquered crowns for the tender arms of a wife. But it was too
late. He died in the care of a complete stranger, because he made complete strangers
out of his family.
But it’s not too late for you. Make
your wife the object of your highest devotion. Make your husband the recipient
of your deepest passion. Love the one who wears your ring. And cherish the
children who share your name. Succeed at home first.
The rest, as they say, will take care
of itself. (Proverbs 16:3)
Grace,
Randy
