Stubborn Love

 

Stubborn Love

Stubborn Love - Audio/Visual 

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. He’s just been 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.

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 dies, 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 that? 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 even 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’s disability. 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 particular 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 had tripped and dropped the boy, breaking both of 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 out of 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; and now 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. David could have sent money to Lo Debar – a lifelong annuity would have generously fulfilled his promise to Jonathan. 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. So 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. Why is David so loyal? Loyalty is one thing, but this? How can he be so loyal? Mephibosheth brings absolutely nothing and takes an awful 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. Call it a stubborn love.

As Moses told the Israelites: “Know this: God, your God, is God indeed, a God you can depend on. 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 God’s 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 might) 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 my story. That’s your story. That’s our story.

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 deserts 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 your own? 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. Be the embodiment of 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. Remember the family portrait in David’s palace? I really 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 for all you know.

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

Grace,

Randy

Stronghold

 

Stronghold

Stronghold - Audio/Visual 

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 then incarcerated. 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 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 kids. If her fourth trip to divorce court didn’t convince her, the fifth removed all doubt. She’s a marital train wreck.

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 500. 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 of 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. When we think of the city now, 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 it. Tall walls protect it. Jebusites indwell it. 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 needs a neutral, centralized city. He wants Jerusalem. And we can only wonder how many times he’d stared at its 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, apparently, he pegged the place as the perfect capital. The crown had scarcely been re-sized for David 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 re-stacked. 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 little 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.” (v 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 had 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 and jailed by his employer. Can Jobless Joe ever amount to anything? He did. Joseph became prime minister of Egypt. (Gen. 37–50) And 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’ 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 was married five times. Jesus was dead in the grave . . . . Nevertheless, Peter preached, Joseph ruled, the woman shared, and Jesus rose. And you? Fill in the blank. With God’s help, your nevertheless awaits you.

Grace,

Randy

Decide, Announce, Defend - "DAD"

 

Decide, Announce, Defend

“DAD”

Decide, Announce, Defend - "DAD" - Audio/Visual 

But David, his head covered, walked barefoot up the slope of the Mount of Olives crying. All the people who were with him covered their heads too and cried as they went up. (2 Sam. 15:30)

David probably looked a lot older than his roughly 60 years. His shoulders were likely slumped; maybe his head was hung. He’s shuffling like an old man, struggling to put one foot in front of the other. He pauses frequently – partly because the hill is steep, but partly because he’s crying. This is the longest path that he’s ever walked. Longer than the one from a creek’s side to meet Goliath. Longer than the winding road from fugitive to king. Even longer than the guilty road that began with his adulterous affair, and ended with a confession almost a year later. Those trails had some steep turns, but none of them compared with this ascent up the Mount of Olives.

He’s not wearing his crown – his son, Absalom, has it; taken by force. He’s without a home – those walls rising behind him belong to the city of Jerusalem. He’s running away from the capital that he’d earlier established. And who wouldn’t be crying at a time like this? He has no throne. He has no home. And there’s nothing but wilderness and an uncertain future ahead. So what happened? Did he lose a war? Was Israel ravaged by COVID? Did inflation starve his loved ones and drain his strength? How does a king end up old and lonely, walking on a difficult uphill path and away from his own home? Just ask his wives and kids if you want the answer.

If you were to ask David about his kids, he’d probably cringe. 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 from another marriage. Amnon craved, connived and then raped Tamar. And then, after raping her, he kicked her to the curb like yesterday’s trash. 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.” (2 Sam. 13:20) And the next verse gives 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 some 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 chewing out. No nothing. And, even worse, he did nothing for Tamar. She needed David’s protection, his affirmation and validation. In other words, she needed a Dad but what she got was silence.

So Absalom, Tamar’s 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 now, in just one family, we have incest, deceit, a daughter raped, a son murdered and another with blood on his hands. David’s is a palace in turmoil. And again, it was time for David to step up – to display his Goliath-killing courage, or Saul-pardoning mercy, or even the leadership he demonstrated at Brook-Besor. David’s family needed to see the best of David. But they saw none of David. He didn’t intervene, or even respond. Instead, he wept in complete solitude.

Absalom interpreted David’s silence and inaction as anger, and fled Jerusalem to hide at his grandfather’s house. David never even made an 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, but “Absalom dwelt two full years in Jerusalem, and did not see the king’s face.” (2. Sam. 14:28) Frankly, that kind of shunning couldn’t have been easy because Jerusalem, at that time, wasn’t that big a city. Avoiding Absalom likely required daily planning and spying. But David succeeded in neglecting his son. Perhaps more accurately, David succeeded in neglecting all of his kids.

A passage from later in David’s life reveals his parenting philosophy. One of his other sons, Adonijah, had staged a military coup. He assembled chariots and horsemen and personal bodyguards to take the throne from his father. 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 poster-child for passivity. So, if you asked David about his kids, he’d likely groan. But if you asked him about his wives, his face would probably turn chalky white.

We began to suspect trouble way back in 2 Samuel, starting in chapter 3. What initially appears to be just another dull genealogy is, actually, a Rose 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. (2 Sam: 3:2–5)

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. But 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 in 1 Chron. 3:9, “These were all the sons of David, besides the sons of the concubines.” The concubines? Yes, the mistresses. His harem side-hustle. So David fathered other sons through other mothers, and we don’t even know how many. And what about the girls? Well, we know about Tamar, but were there others? Probably, at least statistically speaking. And the cynical side of us wonders if David even knew how many kids he actually had.

David did so much so well. He unified the twelve tribes into one nation. He masterminded military conquests. He founded the capital city, elevated God as the Lord of the people, brought the ark of the covenant to Jerusalem and paved the way for the temple. He wrote poetry that we still read, and psalms that we still sing. But when it came to his family, David was missing in action. Going AWOL on his family was David’s greatest failure. Sure, seducing Bathsheba was inexcusable, but later self-justified as an act of passion. And murdering Uriah was ruthless, but a predictable cover up of the pregnant wife of a soldier on deployment. But passive parenting and widespread philandering? These weren’t the sins of a night of passion, or the panicked response of an unfaithful husband. David’s family foul-ups were a lifelong stupor that cost him dearly. And here’s why.

Remember Absalom? David finally reunited with him, but by then it was too late. The seeds of bitterness of a once-abandoned child had grown very deep roots, and Absalom resolved to exact revenge by overthrowing his father and taking his kingdom. So, he recruited from within David’s army and staged a coup d’état. His takeover set the stage for that sad walk of David out of Jerusalem, up the Mount of Olives and out into the wilderness. No crown. No city. Just a heavy-hearted, lonely old man. Loyalists eventually chased Absalom down. And when Absalom tried to escape on horseback, his long hair got tangled in a tree and soldiers speared him to death. When David hears the news of his son’s death 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!” (2 Sam. 18:33) A little late for that, don’t you think?

David succeeded everywhere except at home. And if you don’t succeed at home, do you really 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 kids. And surely, out of all his wives, you’d think that at least one of them would have been worthy of a sonnet or two. But he never talked about them. Aside from the prayer he offered for the baby he had with Bathsheba, which eventually died, Scripture gives no indication that he ever prayed for his family. He prayed for his enemies – the Philistines. He interceded for his employees – his soldiers. He offered prayers for a close friend, Jonathan, and he even prayed for his former archrival, Saul. But as far as his family was concerned, it’s as if they didn’t exist. Prayers for his family were either unimportant or unrecorded.

Was David just too busy to notice them? Maybe. He had a city to settle, and a kingdom to build, right? Was he too important to care for them? “Let the wives raise the kids; I’ll lead the nation,” maybe he rationalized. Was he too guilty to actually parent them? After all, how could David, who had seduced Bathsheba and then intoxicated and murdered her husband to cover up the affair, correct his sons when they raped and murdered themselves? Too busy. Too important. Too guilty. Reminds me of a song by the Eagles, “Too Busy Being Fabulous,” where the final chorus says, You were too busy being fabulous; too busy to think about us; to drink the wine from your winner’s cup to notice the children were growin’ up. And you were just too busy being fabulous. Uh-huh. And David? Too busy. Too fabulous. Too guilty. Too late. A dozen exits too late. But it’s not too late for me and you.

Your home is your giant-sized privilege, Dad, and should be 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 as a part of God’s plan. So don’t make David’s mistake. Be fiercely loyal to your spouse. You’ve made a promise to her, so keep it. And, as you do, nourish, encourage and parent the children that God has given you both.

The real news is that quiet heroes dot the landscape of our society. They don’t wear ribbons, or kiss winner’s cups; they wear spit-up and kiss owie’s, instead. They don’t make the headlines, but they check their kids’ outlines, and stand and cheer on the sidelines. You won’t find their names on the Nobel Peace Prize short list, but you’ll find their names on the PTA and carpool lists. News programs don’t call them, but that’s okay because their kids do – they call him Dad. Be numbered among those heroes. Your children are not your hobby; they are your calling. Your spouse is not your trophy; she’s 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 that David paid for neglecting his family.

David is now just hours from death. A chill has set in that blankets just can’t warm. So, servants decide that David needs a person to snuggle with him, someone to hold him tight as he draws his final breath. But do they turn to one of his wives? He had at least eight of them, right? But no, they don’t. Alright, then how about calling on one of his kids? He probably had hundreds of them, too. But no, they don’t call on the kids either. The servants, instead, “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) Oh, that’s nice. So she was just a pretty heatilator. Sadly, I suspect that David would have traded all his conquered crowns for the tender arms of a wife, maybe even a child. But it was too late. Now hundreds of exits too late. David died in the care of a complete stranger, because he’d made complete strangers out of his family.

But it’s not too late for us, Dads. Make your wife the object of your highest devotion; make her 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 – for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. (Luke 12:34) Otherwise, you’ll end up being too fabulous for anyone to really actually care.

You know, Dads, it only takes a moment to make a child, but it takes a lifetime to love and nurture one. So love your kids like God loves you. God would do anything for you, and he proved it by sending his son to die for your sins. And although you can’t be a sacrifice for your child’s sins, much less your own, you can model that sacrifice by being present in your child’s life since it started with you. And, like Christ, he died to have a relationship with you, not for a religion called by his name in which he’s no longer involved. So decide, with prayer, to be one, and announce your God-inspired intentions. Then, defend that choice – your family. It’s called “Father’s Day” for a reason, Dads. So, be one.

Happy Father’s Day,

Randy