Runt
“God
does not see the same way people see. People look at the outside of a person,
but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Sam. 16:7)
Sixth-grade. Do you remember sixth grade? I don’t. Well, not really. I
don’t remember my grades, and I can’t even tell you the name of the blond-haired
girl I had a crush on. But that spring evening in 1969? Like it was yesterday. I’m
seated in the den because I’d asked to leave the dinner table. Mom had even made
some cookies, but I passed on dessert because I wasn’t feeling very sociable
tonight. I mean, who has time for sweets at a time like this? Frankly, I’d
expected the call before dinner, but it hadn’t come. I’d even listened for it during
dinner. It hadn’t rung. Now, I’m staring at the phone like my dog does at his dish,
hoping a Little League coach will tell me that I’ve made the All-Star team. I’m
sitting on the couch with my glove at my side. I can hear my buddies playing
out in the street, but I don’t care. All that matters is the phone. I want it
to ring. Pleeeeeeeeeeease ring. It
doesn’t.
I help with the dishes and finish my homework in silence. Mom says some kind
words like she always does, but I don’t really respond. Bedtime’s around the corner,
but the phone never rings. It sits there in silence in the den. Painful
silence. Now, in the great scheme of things, not making an All-Star team doesn’t
matter a whole lot. But eleven-year-olds don’t always see the “grand scheme of
things.” It was a huge deal for me, and all I could think about was what I
would say when schoolmates asked if I’d been selected. Rejection. Disaster.
Maybe you know the feeling; perhaps the phone didn’t ring for you, either.
Well, at least maybe in the grander scheme of things, it didn’t. Like when you
applied for the job, or when you tried to make up. The call never came. And you
know the pain of a no call. We all do. In fact, we’ve even coined phrases for it
– he was left “holding the bag,” or she was left “standing at the altar,” or
they were left “out in the cold.” Or, “he’s out taking care of the sheep.” Let me
explain that last one.
David’s story begins on the ancient hillsides of Israel, as an
equally-ancient priest trundles down a narrow trail with a heifer lumbering along
behind him. Bethlehem lies ahead and anxiety brews within. Farmers in their
fields notice him, and those who know his face whisper his name, and those who
hear the name turn to stare at his face. Samuel. Yep, God’s chosen priest right
there in Bethlehem. Called by God. And when the sons of Eli turned sour, young
Samuel stepped forward. When Israel needed spiritual focus, Samuel provided it.
When Israel wanted a king, Samuel anointed one – Saul. And now the very name
causes Samuel to groan. Saul. The Israelites
wanted a king, so we have a king alright. They wanted a leader, and we have a maniac
– or manic – for one.
Saul’s heart has grown harder, and his eyes even wilder. He isn’t the
king he used to be. In fact, in God’s eyes, he isn’t even the king anymore. The
Lord had already said to Samuel, “How long will you continue to feel sorry for
Saul? I have rejected him as king of Israel. Fill your container with olive oil
and go. I am sending you to Jesse who lives in Bethlehem, because I have chosen
one of his sons to be king.” (1 Sam. 16:1) And so Samuel walks the trail toward
Bethlehem. His stomach churns and his thoughts race.
Frankly, it’s just a little hazardous to anoint a king when Israel
already has one, especially when the king is Saul. But it’s even more hazardous
to live with no leader in such explosive times. 1000 BC was a bad time for this
ramshackle bunch of tribes called Israel. Although Joshua and Moses were
history-class heroes, three centuries of spiritual winter had frozen people’s
faith. One writer described the days between Joshua and Samuel with this terse
sentence: “In those days Israel did not have a king. Everyone did what seemed
right.” (Jud. 21:25) Corruption fueled disruption, and immorality gave birth to
brutality. The people had demanded a king. But rather than saving the ship,
Saul had nearly sunk it. Israel’s first monarch turned out to be a psychotic
blunderer.
And then there were the Philistines: a warring, bloodthirsty,
giant-breeding people who had cornered the market on iron and blacksmithing. The
Philistines built cities, while the Jewish people huddled in tents. Philistines
forged iron weapons while the Hebrews fought with crude slings and arrows.
Philistines thundered in flashing chariots, while the Israelites retaliated
with farm tools. In fact, in one battle, the entire Hebrew army owned only two
swords — one for Saul and the other for his son, Jonathan. Corruption from
within. Danger from without. Saul was weak, and the nation was weaker. So, what
did God do? He did what no one imagined. He issued a surprise invitation to a nobody
from nowhere. It’s like he dispatched Samuel to Ramona, California.
The Bethlehem of Samuel’s day was like Ramona: a sleepy, little village
that time had forgotten nestled in the foothills some six miles south of
Jerusalem. Bethlehem sat two thousand feet above the Mediterranean, looking
down on gentle, green hills that flattened into gaunt, rugged pastureland.
Jesus would issue his first cry under Bethlehem’s sky. But a thousand years
before the manger scene, Samuel enters the village pulling a cow. And his
arrival turns the heads of residents because prophets simply didn’t visit
Bethlehem. Has he come to preach against someone, or maybe hide somewhere? (He
certainly was sideways with Saul) “Neither,” the stoop-shouldered priest
assures them. He has come to sacrifice the animal to God, and invites the
elders, including Jesse and his sons, to join him.
The scene had a kind of beauty pageant feel to it. Samuel examines the
boys one at a time like Miss America, and more than once ready to crown the
contestant, God stops him each and every time. For instance, Eliab, the oldest,
seems the logical choice. Envision him as the village Casanova: wavy haired,
strong jawed. He wears tight jeans and has a piano-keyboard smile. This is the guy, Samuel thinks.
“Wrong,” God says. Abinadab enters as contestant number two. You’d think a GQ model had just walked in. Italian
suit. Alligator-skin shoes. Jet-black, oiled-back hair. Rolex watch. Want a
classy king? Abinadab has the bling. “Nope.” God’s not into classy. So, Samuel
asks for brother number three, Shammah. He’s bookish. You know, the studious
type. Bursting with brains but in need of a charisma transplant. He’s got a
degree from Harvard and his eyes on postgraduate studies. Jesse whispers to
Samuel, “Valedictorian of Bethlehem High.” Samuel is impressed, but God isn’t.
He reminds the priest, “God does not see the same way people see. People look
at the outside of a person, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Sam. 16:7) Seven
sons pass. Seven sons fail. And the procession comes to a halt. Samuel counts
the siblings: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. “Hey, Jesse, don’t you
have eight sons?” (A similar question caused Cinderella’s stepmother to become
very uncomfortable. And Jesse likely did the same) “I still have the youngest
son. He’s out taking care of the sheep.”
The Hebrew word used for “youngest son” implies more than just age. It
also suggests rank. So, the “youngest son” was more than the youngest brother.
He was the little brother. Or,
to put it differently, he was the runt. And sheep watching fits runts. Put the
boy where he can’t cause trouble. Leave him with woolly heads and open skies. And
that’s where we find David – in the pasture with the flock. The Bible dedicates
sixty-six chapters to his story, more than anyone else except Jesus. The New
Testament mentions his name fifty-nine times. He will establish and rule the
world’s most famous city, Jerusalem. The Son of God will be called the Son of
David. The greatest psalms will flow from his pen. We’ll call him king,
minstrel, even giant-killer. But today, he’s not even included in the family
meeting; he’s just a forgotten kid performing a menial task in a nowhere town.
So what caused God to pick him? After all, we’ve all walked in David’s
pasture. You know, the pasture of
exclusion. We’re weary of society’s surface-level system, of being graded
according to the inches of our waist, the square footage of our house, the
color of our skin, or the label of our clothes. Don’t you get tired of those games?
Hard work is ignored, and devotion is left unrewarded. The boss chooses
cleavage over character. The teacher picks pet students instead of prepared
ones. And parents show off their favorite sons and leave their runts out in the
field. Are you sick of the enemy of exclusion? Then it’s time to quit staring
at him. Who cares what they think, anyway? What matters is what your Maker
thinks. “The Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward
appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (16:7) Those words were written
for the runts of society.
Written for the misfits and outcasts. God uses them all. For instance, Moses
ran from justice, but God used him. Jonah ran from God, but God used him, too. Rahab
ran a brothel, Samson ran to the wrong woman, Sarah ran out of hope, and Lot
ran with the wrong crowd. But God used all of them. And David? God saw a
teenager serving him in a backward town and, through the voice of a brother,
God said, “David! Come inside. Someone wants to see you.”
Human eyes saw a gangly teenager enter the house, smelling like sheep and
needing a bath. Yet, “the Lord said, ‘Arise, anoint him; for this is the one!’”
(16:12) God saw what no one else saw: a God-seeking heart. David, for all his flaws,
sought after God like white on rice. He took after God’s heart, because he
stayed after God’s heart. And, in the end, that’s all God wanted or needed. And today, that’s all God wants or needs from
you. You see, others measure your waist size, or your wallet. Not God. He
examines hearts. When he finds one set on him, he calls it and claims it. The
story of young David assures us of this: our Father knows our hearts, and
because he does, he has a place reserved just for us. God doesn’t care about
your waist size, the square footage of your house, the color of your skin, or the
label of your clothes. God knows – and cares about – your heart.
The phone’s ringing. Pick it up and talk with God. He’s got great news
for you. You’re an All-Star.
Grace,
Randy
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