David Breaks the Scoreboard
Part two of two on favor, tragic punishment, and God’s architecture
When medieval thinkers looked up at the stars, they didn’t see them scattered across a flat sky.
Rather, and in an early nod to the Hubble telescope, they saw space in terms of height and depth. Looking up from a presumably flat earth, the constellations towered skyward, the stars forming walls of some vast cathedral rising through the heavens.
Given that their cosmology placed God, heaven, and the angels at the top of a ladder with all creation, the vertical orientation make sense. Even in the Star Trek age, with our confidence in the general three dimension-ness of space, the old notes of awe and wonder pique the mind.
It’s a reminder of how important the framework really is.
Likewise, epic, ancient stories that continue to dazzle us give a splendid view of the cosmos as humans imagined it. Things like tragedy, comedy, and the Bible’s overlapping narratives tell us plenty about core assumptions, along with the imaginative boundaries of original storytellers.
And more about our own than we’d like to admit.
With this in mind, and on the heels of an essay on the tragic nosedive of Shakespeare’s King Lear, I’m tackling another big one.
This month…by which I mean the month it was five days ago, at the tail end of my whooshing deadline, it’s King David of the Bible, the patriarch and warrior-king of early Israel.
Or at least, choice bits of him.
If you’re just joining us, this is part two of two, the conclusion of a series that began with a mirror moment in both stories—a low point that finds both Lear and David cornered, humiliated, and howling in anguish over the loss of a favorite child.
Both stories share the set-up.
After successful reigns, in pre-Saxon Britain and nascent Israel respectively, Lear and David find themselves dethroned and exiled, with loyalist armies defending them against forces led by rebellious offspring.
While both Kings prevail, victory is tarnished by the loss of Absalom, David’s handsome, but traitorous son and the loss of Lear’s daughter Cordelia, a saint like rescuer who tries to protect her father from two monstrous, power-hungry sisters.
Both rulers grieve and wail, cementing a unique archetype—the foolish ruler who loses everything, recovers it… and find he’s lost the person his heart wants most.
Brutal punishment; and in both cases, sadly enough, set in motion by the ruler’s own casual, frivolous moral transgression. While David’s sin is, first and foremost, one of carnal desire, and Lear’s is a foolish insistence on public flattery that could only invite deception, both find themselves mired in selfishness, manipulative face-saving, and above all, woefully misplaced affection.
But in both cases, it’s a final stroke set in motion by the hero’s own sins; the final destination of foolish, pride, selfishness, and woefully misplaced affection.
Because they flatter him in front of everyone, Lear himself gives his wicked daughters the whole kingdom and banishes Cordelia. King David shreds a spotless reputation with adultery and murder, and later on, flees for his life as his own brings a revolution to his doorstep.
In both losses, there’s a haunting confirmation. An assurance that worshipping ourselves—or rather, idols to ourselves—leads, in the calm, truthful words of Cordelia, to ‘nothing, My Lord.’
Nothing but loss and destruction.
But where Lear ends the play by dying on the spot, the equally brokenhearted David goes way off script. Clinging to a different framework altogether, David holds fast, steels himself, and gets back to work.
David takes the field
Truth be told, moving from King Lear to King David is a bit unfair.
It’s like going from a campfire yarn to a BBC series.
That’s because Lear’s five acts are pretty sparse next to the episodic mileage of David’s life.
While King Lear cuts right in at the monarch’s early retirement, we meet David before he’s even King. A teenage shepherd, and the youngest son of a non-royal family, the unlikely hero finds himself chosen for divine rule when the prophet Samuel anoints him with God’s spirit.
From there, David serves King Saul, and climbs into the spotlight by slaying Goliath, the roaring nine foot tall Philistine warrior who challenges Israel to a one-on-one showdown with their strongest fighter—and then loses to an adolescent shepherd armed only with a rock and a sling.
That episode’s still with us, big time. Given our individualistic, do-or-die culture, not to mention our affinity for the underdog, it’s no wonder authors like Malcolm Gladwell named a book after it.
Just riffing off the rock and sling encounter—a towering foe, a young outcast scoring a direct hit on the first try and then leading an entire movement—you’ve got the basis for Luke Skywalker, Harry, Katniss, the brave 300… and in alternate universe California, something like a victorious Larry Elder.
But David v. Goliath is more opening kickoff than first half… and if we stretch out David’s story out to an entire bowl game, it’s a nail biter.
One of the longest ever recorded.
At some point, the scoreboard just shatters.
From rise to downfall, and from exile, war and losing Absalom to a clean crossing of the finish line, David’s saga eats up fourteen chapters in the book of First Samuel, all twenty-four of Second Samuel, and two more in First Kings.
Even for a notorious story spoiler like myself, there’s too much to cover.
David fumbles…
If we break this thing into a three act structure, Act One finds David receiving God’s favor, killing Goliath and then fleeing for his life with the jealous King Saul right behind him.
Every step of the way, God guides David to safety—even when that safety involves hiding in a cave, disguising himself, and literally acting insane to throw the murderous Saul off his trail.
Even here, David drifts away from heroes like Luke Skywalker, who faces setbacks and masters the force, but doesn’t pray to it, cling to it like a life raft, or find sole comfort in it when his own side thinks of killing him:
“And David was greatly distressed, for the people spoke of stoning him… But David strengthened himself in the Lord, his God.”1
If we end Act One right when First Samuel ends, King Saul is finally dead.
Act Two covers David’s coronation, his possession of Jerusalem, as well as a first round of sweeping, Napoleonic victories against Israel’s enemies. Everywhere we turn, the same God who set his sights on the young shepherd pours favor over him, his family, his armies, and all of Israel. Abundance flows like a waterfall—right up to when David commits one of the most dizzying acts of selfishness ever recorded:
In the spring, at the time when kings go off to war, David sent Joab out with the king’s men and the whole Israelite army… but David remained in Jerusalem.
One evening David got up from his bed and walked around on the roof of the palace. From the roof he saw a woman bathing. The woman was very beautiful, and David sent someone to find out about her. The man said, ‘She is Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite.’ Then David sent messengers to get her.
She came to him, and he slept with her… then she went back home. The woman conceived and sent word to David, saying, ‘I am pregnant.’2
For those less familiar with the story, it’s worse than you think.
Knowing full well that Bathsheba’s husband, Uriah the Hittite, is one of his most loyal soldiers—one of thousands camping near the front while their King is home sipping lemonade—our otherwise brave, tender, and likeable hero helps himself.
And when Bathsheba gets pregnant, David tries to cover his tracks by bringing Uriah home to her.
When that fails, David has Uriah killed by sending him out to the edge of the fighting.
No one seems to notice.
That is, until God sends the prophet Nathan to thump David’s skull for him:
“Then Nathan said to David, ‘This is what the God of Israel, says: ‘I anointed you king over Israel, and I delivered you from the hand of Saul. I gave your master’s house to you… I gave you all Israel and Judah. And if all this had been too little, I would have given you even more. Why did you despise the word of the Lord by doing what is evil in his eyes?
Now, the sword will never depart from your house, because you despised me and took the wife of Uriah the Hittite to be your own.”3
It’s clear from text that David’s sins grieve God personally, catapulting the betrayal, shock, and disappointment any of us would feel to a cosmic level.
God’s outrage is all the more justified because of the favor, guidance, and personal protection he showed him. Our jaws drop, (or at least mine does) when God, via Nathan, boasts that ‘if everything had been too little, I would have given you more.’
What?
I’m sorry… but aside from personal protection, divine-right to rule, and the entire kingdom, David could have had more?
Still, the boast is there—one of a thousand small details that grate against the negative assumptions about a God who makes moral demands on people, punishes sin, and inclines everyone to revere and worship Him rather than the knock-offs.
Apparently, God’s no tightwad.
But as Nathan continues, we learn that the punishment for murder and adultery will actually be two punishments, one that turns each of the crimes David committed back on himself.
For the premeditated death of Uriah, the son David conceived with Bathsheba will (and does) die.
And for adultery:
“Out of your own household I am going to bring calamity on you. Before your very eyes I will take your wives and give them to one who is close to you, and he will sleep with your wives in broad daylight. You did it in secret, but I will do this thing in broad daylight before all Israel.”
Then David said to Nathan, “I have sinned against the Lord.”
Nathan replied, “The Lord has taken away your sin. You are not going to die. But because by doing this you have shown utter contempt for the Lord, the son born to you will die.”4
The punishments here are straight eye for an eye.
And like an earlier scene in which God directs the prophet Samuel to cut a captured, enemy King to pieces after King Saul fails to do so, they’re a stark reminder that God revealed himself to a shame and honor warrior culture—not to mention a time and place in which violent death was bread and butter.
When, after one of his battles, David lines up a thousand captives and only kills two thirds of them…he’s being magnanimous.
In doling out just desert, God doesn’t airlift David to some touch football arena—but even as he’s outlining the consequence, God does something even more striking.
He forgives him.
In a stirring forecast of what will happen to Jesus at the end of his three year ministry, God inflicts the consequence of death, one David rightly deserves… on someone else.
When David saw his servants whispering, he knew that the baby was dead.
…Then David got up from the floor, washed himself, put lotions on, and changed his clothes. Then he went into the Lord’s house to worship. After that, he went home and asked for something to eat. His servants gave him some food, and he ate.
David said, “While the baby was still alive, I fasted, and I cried. I thought, ‘Who knows? Maybe the Lord will feel sorry for me and let the baby live.’ But now that the baby is dead, why should I fast? I can’t bring him back to life. Someday I will go to him, but he cannot come back to me.”5
If it’s not pragmatic, and even a bit humble, David’s recovery foreshadows what he’ll have to do yet again, when the punishment is repeated with Absalom’s death.
At that point, the lessons will be even more painful.
But while we see it ordered early on, the punishment for adultery doesn’t arrive until Act Three, when a despondent, outmaneuvered King David is fleeing for his life and Absalom—de facto ruler and eager to show it—is raping Dad’s concubines on the roof of the palace.
Some halftime stats…
Before our final stop in Act Three, I’m calling an audible.
As we finish, I’ll be pivoting away with a full Venn Diagram of how Lear and David match up... assuming that’s O.K.
Without getting too far outside the margins, I’d like to ask, (and as quickly as I can, answer) some questions an outsider might have about the architecture:
-What do stories like David’s tell us about the God of Israel?
-What do they tell us about God’s character? Nature?
-And what’s the deal with God’s taste for punishment?
I’m doing this in part, because Shelf of Crocodiles is growing.
With a handful of readers who know three to five times more Bible than I do… there’s also a few who probably know some Bible stories, but plant their flags of belief elsewhere. If you’re one of those—and if you’re read this far, that means you’re rowing good and hard to keep up—I’m equally glad you’re here.
And for the record, the questions I’m asking concern Yahweh, the God of Israel.
Same one who creates the world in the Old Testament, walks with David, and then sends Jesus to die on a cross in the New.
With this in mind as we sweep through Act Three, a short answer would be that God’s character is nothing like the old adage—He’s angry in the Old Testament, but in the New Testament, He mellows out… Cheech and Chong style.
Read closely and that one goes up in smoke.
Like King Aslan, the lion-ruler in the Chronicles of Narnia, the God of Israel is neither tame nor safe.
But he is good.
Absalom, Absalom
After God takes David and Bathsheba’s son as punishment, the King’s reign continues.
But by Act Three, trouble’s brewing.
Before long—and like every subsequent King who will lead Israel off the cliff by worshipping other gods—David fills his palace with concubines. Though it’s not entirely clear, some view the added company as signs of wayward neglect, if not outright carelessness.
It’s a strong possibility…especially when David fails to foresee, prevent, or even punish the rape of his daughter Tamar by her half-brother.
Instead, a furious Absalom plots vengeance, waits…and takes it.
And while David banishes Absalom from the kingdom, he underhandedly agrees to let his son return two years later. Reading between the lines, we see that Absalom, who lives at the palace but is forbidden from entering his father’s presence, is neither punished, nor fully forgiven.
That is, he’s tolerated.
Before long, what’s left of the father-son relationship has festered—and we find Absalom out at the city gates, building popular support for an open revolt against his father:
“Then Absalom would say, “Look, your claims are right, but the king has no one to listen to you.” Absalom would also say, “I wish someone would make me judge in this land! Then people with problems could come to me, and I could help them get justice.” People would come near Absalom to bow to him... In this way, Absalom stole the hearts of all Israel”6
When the time comes, Absalom takes power easily—and when we find him deflowering his father’s wives, we know God’s punishment for David’s adultery has finally arrived:
Before your very eyes I will take your wives and give them to one who is close to you…
In keeping with the Bible’s paradoxical pairing of human agency with sovereign destiny, Absalom’s both responsible for what he does… and right on schedule.
And apparently, betrayal and wickedness this colorful isn’t enough to turn David’s heart away from what it now wants and craves—his son Absalom.
A heart corrected… with jumper cables
Here, and near the end of Act Three, we’re full circle.
As civil wages tears the countryside, David gears up for his best Lear impression.
Like Lear, who goes from wanting public praise from two wicked daughters to clutching the lifeless body of the only daughter who truly loved him, David’s wandering heart receives nothing less than a jarring course correction.
Awaiting rescue, David’s request that his defending army do everything in its power to not kill Absalom tells us everything we need to know.
Having lost everything, he sees at last what he truly wants.
Here again, the God of Israel, who choose him, favored him, punished him and forgave him—the one being in the universe David should want more than anything else—is neither tame, nor gentle.
In this situation, He’s far too merciful to give David what he thinks he wants. Ever the surgeon, God removes the tumor by having hothead Joab, another one of David’s loyal fighters, kill Absalom off.
In a poetic touch, Joab spears the traitor while he dangles from the branches of a tree that reached out and caught his gorgeous, manly hair—the primary tool of the cunning traitor’s GQ appearance.
When news arrives, David keens with his outdoor voice, turning what should be a victory parade into a national lament.
“And the king was deeply moved and went up to the chamber over the gate and wept. And as he went, he said, “O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would I had died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!”
… So the victory that day was turned into mourning for all the people, for they heard that day, ‘The king is grieving for his son.’ And the people stole into the city that day as people steal in who are ashamed when they flee in battle.”7
But while David’s heart is no less broken, and his grief no less public than Lear’s, his story springs forward where every tragedy should end.
Rather than stepping back and letting David drown, the trigger-happy, Absalom-killing Joab steps up to deliver a backhand.
Like Nathan before him, Joab slaps David to his senses:
“You have today covered with shame the faces of all your servants, who have this day saved your life and the lives of your sons and your daughters… because you love those who hate you and hate those who love you. For you have made it clear today that commanders and servants are nothing to you… that if Absalom were alive and all of us were dead today, then you would be pleased… Now therefore arise, go out and speak kindly to your servants.”8
If David’s heart is a dead battery, Joab’s on the scene with jumper cables.
Stung to his senses, and no doubt realizing that the flip side of mourning a national traitor is cruelty and ingratitude to those who saved his life, David returns to Jerusalem, gets back on the throne, and keeps on trucking.
And he moves well beyond the realm of a Luke Skywalker, or a mere tragic hero à la King Oedipus.
In both Israel’s memory and the New Testament, David receives as much reverence, mention, and praise as Moses—a player to be reckoned with, but apparently not ‘a man after God’s own heart.’
And with the scoreboard in smithereens, we drag the brooms over.
Some post-game discussion
If there’s more to David’s story than perfect tragedy, it’s because we’ve tapped into a broader genre altogether—a living narrative, shot through with punishment, forgiveness, and culmination in Jesus, the Son of Man, famously quoting David’s own words while dying on the cross.
Where Lear screams himself hoarse in a thunderstorm, David’s words pour proudly, from hundreds of psalms to the mouths of New Testament characters.
Not only is David included in the ‘Great Faith’ chapter of Hebrews Eleven, he’s hailed by Stephen, the first Christian martyr, as one of God’s favorites:
“So it was until the days of David, who found favor in the sight of God and asked to find a dwelling place for the God of Jacob. But it was Solomon who built a house for him.”
While it’s not David who finishes the Temple—having broken ground on it, he leaves that honor to his son, Solomon—there’s no asterisk by his name.
No Scarlet A, as it were.
Even though everyone knows what happened.
For simply clinging to God’s love and favor—sometimes with the intensity of a first time water-skier holding on to the rope—David walks out a relationship with the Creator of the universe.
He tastes the closeness that Jesus’ disciples would enjoy more fully.
More than that, his sins and suffering reflect a strange, underdog glory—that of a storyteller who, rather than throwing out an imperfect hero, restores, disciplines, and ultimately rescues him.
One play a time.
On God and punishment
Looking back, even God’s harsh punishment achieves something that David, when punishing Absalom for killing his half-brother, can’t pull off.
Unlike David’s losing combination of punitive banishment, lax enforcement, and cold shoulder, God’s punishment is fast, brutal, surgical, even intimate—and then over and done with.
Even before it’s finished, God’s forgiveness, is real, total.
We can only wonder what thoughts were running through David’s head when he trembled at the thought of losing Absalom… but I wonder if the waffling back and forth had something to do with it.
Was David longing for respect he hadn’t earned?
Like Lear, did he want praise and affection?
Or rather—to go out on one last limb—was he longing for Absalom to give him something he never could? Was he hoping Absalom’s contrition might reflect back some small shade of glory, an image of David as a wise King, a benevolent father?
It would appear that only the God of Israel knows.
You know—the one we’re told is boring, angry, petty, patriarchal.
The one who sees all hearts, reads every thought, punishes evil, and disciplines those he loves.
The one who, after framing all narrative architecture and threading the universe with dimensions we haven’t seen yet, boasted he could give David even more.
First Samuel, 20:5-6, English Standard Version
Second Samuel, 11:1-5, English Standard Version
Second Samuel 12: 7 - 14, English Standard Version
Second Samuel 12: 11-12, English Standard Version
Second Samuel 12: 19 – 22, English Standard Version
Second Samuel, 15:3 - 5, English Standard Version
Second Samuel, 19:1-4, English Standard Version
Second Samuel, 19:5-7, English Standard Version