Unforgivable

Scripture: Fourth Sunday after Pentecost (Lectionary 11), A.D. 2016 C

Homily:

Grace, mercy and peace to you from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

They say you either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. What better example of this than that of King David?

It is hard to overstate David’s importance in the Bible. He is by far the most beloved of all the Israelite kings. His is the name most often repeated in the Old Testament, more times even than Moses or Abraham. Like most great heroes, David has humble beginnings. He is the youngest of eight sons raised in a small rural town. His formative years are spent herding sheep and playing the lute to wile away the hours spent out in the fields. One day, a wizened old man stops by the household of David’s father Jesse, anointing David with oil and promising that one day God would make him king. Imagine that: the runt of the litter, a shepherd king. What a funny old man.

Time passes, and Israel finds herself at war with the Philistines, a powerful, brutal people from the sea. David’s elder brothers are called up to fight, but David is too young. He divides his time between bringing them supplies at the front line and running home to tend the sheep. Sometimes he plays his harp for the king. But then comes that famous giant, Goliath of Gath, and David is scandalized that no Israelite proves brave enough to take up the Philistine’s challenge. “I’ve killed lions and bears in defense of my flocks,” he retorts, with all the brashness of youth. “I can take on one Philistine blowhard.”

So out David marches with neither sword nor armor, bearing only a sling, the simple but effective weapon of the poor. He mocks Goliath’s oversized armor and arsenal. “You come to me with your sword and your spear, but I come to you with the Lord!” And with that he slings a rock right into Goliath’s forehead, hard enough to put him down. Before the giant can recover, David steals away his sword and beheads Goliath with his own blade. You can imagine what happens after that.

Defeating Goliath in front of both armies proves to be David’s breakout role. No more lonely lute songs out amongst the sheep for him. From now on David is a rock star, Israel’s champion, the right-hand man of the king. A troupe of loyal warriors forms around him, David’s band of brothers, his Mighty Men. Even the royal family is smitten! The king’s daughter falls madly in love with David. The king’s son pledges fealty to him. And the king himself begins to realize that at this rate he won’t be king for terribly much longer.

Thus does the legend of King David begin. He fights great battles, wins against great odds, and captures the hearts of fair maidens. In time he takes the throne, and moves his capital to Jerusalem, a city that is his impartial private possession, not beholden to any of the 12 Tribes of Israel. But what really sets him apart is that he does all these things while still maintaining his integrity. He is honest and steadfast and just. He shows no favoritism towards riches or relations. He is brave and merciful and faithful and good. David is a hero inside and out. That is, until today.

In today’s story, David is a young hero no longer. In today’s story, David lives long enough to see himself become the villain.

It all starts out innocuously enough. It is the spring, states the text, the time when kings lead their armies out to war. But this time David chooses not to brave the dangers. This time he chooses to stay at home, in Jerusalem, while the soldiers are away. And so one morning, as he gazes out across the Kidron Valley from the high vantage of his palace, David spies Bathsheba, a young woman of his own tribe. She is married to Uriah the Hittite, one of David’s Mighty Men currently off to war. She is also naked, bathing, for some reason, upon her rooftop. Approving of what he sees, the king does as kings are wont to do, and sends an agent to bring Bathsheba to the palace. Lo and behold, she finds herself with child. Political sex scandals are nothing new. Indeed, they seem endemic amongst aging, powerful men.

David seeks to cover up his adultery by calling Uriah home, encouraging him to return to the marital bed in the hopes of passing off Bathsheba’s pregnancy as her husband’s. Yet out of fealty to David and fidelity to his men still in the field, Uriah will not go home to his wife. And so David sends Uriah back to the army, carrying sealed orders to his commanding officer—orders that Uriah be killed. “Do not let this matter trouble you,” David writes to his general, “for the sword devours now one and now another.” Uriah, it seems, is to be just one more casualty of war.

Loyal Uriah is slain. Bathsheba mourns the loss. And David brings her into his palace. It seems that all has been wrapped up nicely. But the eyes of God do not rest. For David was not chosen as king over the Egyptians or the Moabites, whose rulers live above the law. No, David was anointed king over Israel, to rule over God’s own chosen people, and no king—no king—is above the Law of God.

The prophet Nathan comes to David and tells him the story of a rich, cruel man: a man who had many flocks and herds, yet who stole away and slaughtered a poor man’s one and only little ewe lamb, his lamb that he raised as one of his own children. And good King David, David the Just, David the Honorable, seethes with righteous indignation at Nathan’s story. “As the Lord lives,” fumes David, “the man who has done this deserves to die, and to make restitution fourfold for his crime!”

And right then, like a crack of thunder from on high, Nathan smites down David in his pride. “You are the man!” the prophet roars to the king. “Thus says the Lord: You have taken the life of Uriah the Hittite and taken his wife as your own! Now the sword shall never depart from your house! I will raise up trouble against you from within your own family! I will take your wives from before your eyes and give them to your neighbor in the sight of all the people! For you did all this in secret, but I will do this thing before all of Israel and before the sun!”

And David quails in horror at the work of his own hands: “I have sinned,” he croaks.

It is a powerful story, a remarkable story. God lays low His greatest champion, His greatest king, out of concern for one murdered foreigner. There is no man above the Law, not even God’s own anointed. But here’s what’s stranger still. David confesses his sin against God and Man. He confesses his murder, the blood on his hands. And he is forgiven. Now, I know that every Sunday we confess that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God—we are all sinners here—but this? This is real sin, ghastly sin. And it is really forgiven.

This does not mean that hereafter things are all roses and sweet cream in the gardens. David’s child with Bathsheba will die. As the years roll by, three more of David’s sons—Amnon, Absalom, and Adonijah—will also perish violently. And so David indeed pays fourfold for his crime, the sentence he had passed upon himself. “But let this matter not trouble you, for the sword devours now one and now another.”

God, for His part, keeps His promises to David. The royal line endures for a thousand years up to Jesus Christ, Son of God and Son of David, who is King of Kings forever. Bathsheba goes on to become the great powerbroker of the kingdom, and her second son by David rises to become Solomon, wisest and richest of kings. But for me this entire story hinges upon this one idea: what does it mean to be forgiven? Clearly it doesn’t mean that past transgressions are forgotten. Sin is so terrible precisely because it ripples out to affect all those around us, the very world itself.

I remember an old Boy Scout story about a father who stuck a nail in a fence post every time his son did wrong, then removed a nail for each good deed. One proud day he pulled out the last nail, yet his son only wept—for the post remained riddled with scars. Our actions, our choices, have consequences, often terrible ones.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean pretending that nothing happened. Nor does it necessitate that justice be ignored. What forgiveness means is that the relationship is restored. The wounds are closed but scars remain. Yet this is no bad thing. Scars, accepted as such, are a sign of stronger healing, of new creation. When He rose from the dead, Jesus kept His scars. Forgiveness doesn’t mean going backward. It doesn’t mean that you get a do-over, free of charge. Forgiveness means going forward, together. Trying to forget a trespass leaves us mired in pain, as does refusing to forgive at all. But true forgiveness, the restoration of relationship, is a trigger for great things, for new life and for love.

David suffered as a result of what he had done, yet because he was forgiven he ever lived with faith, hope, and love. When his sons died, he trusted that he would see them again. When rebellion arose, he had faith that God would bring peace. And when he himself perished—the king, at long last, dead—he entered into the love of God, and lives even now as a saint in Heaven. It’s true, he doesn’t deserve it—murderers and adulterers shall not enter the Kingdom—but then, neither do we.

Only God can forgive the unforgivable. And that’s exactly what He does.

In the Name of the Father and of the +Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.