Max Lucado

by Facing Your Giants

  He winces at the subject. Fourteen years have passed since David seduced Bathsheba, thirteen years since Nathan told David, “The sword shall never depart from your house” (2 Sam. 12:10).

  Nathan’s prophecy has proved 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 pined, plotted, and raped her. After the rape, he discarded Tamar like a worn doll.

  Tamar, understandably, came undone. 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). The next verse tells us David’s response: “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 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 pro-tection, his affirmation and validation. She needed a dad. What she got was silence. So Absalom, her brother, filled the void. He shel-tered his sister and plotted against Amnon: got him drunk and had him killed.

  Incest. Deceit. One daughter raped. One son dead. Another with blood on his hands. A palace in turmoil.

  Again it was time for David to step up. Display his Goliath-killing courage, Saul-pardoning mercy, Brook-Besor leadership. David’s family needed to see the best of David. But they saw none of David. He didn’t intervene or respond. He wept. But wept in solitude.

  Absalom interpreted the silence as anger and fled Jerusalem to hide in his grandfather’s house. David made no attempt to see his son. For three years they lived in two separate cities. Absalom returned to Jerusalem, but David still refused to see him. Absalom married and had four children. “Absalom dwelt two full years in Jerusalem, but did not see the king’s face” (14:28).

  Such shunning could not have been easy. Jerusalem was a small town. Avoiding Absalom demanded daily plotting and spying. But David succeeded in neglecting his son.

  More accurately, he neglected all his children. A passage from later in his life exposes his parenting philosophy. One of his sons, Adonijah, staged a coup. He assembled chariots and horsemen and personal bodyguards to take the throne. Did David object? Are you kidding? David “never crossed him at any time by asking, ‘Why have you done so?’” (1 Kings 1:6 NASB).

  David, the Homer Simpson of biblical dads. The picture of pas-sivity. When we ask him about his kids, he just groans. When we ask him the second question, his face goes chalky.

  David, how’s your marriage?

  We began to suspect trouble back in 2 Samuel chapter 3. What appears as 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 Shep-hatiah, 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 NCV)

  I count six wives. Add to this list Michal, his first wife, and Bathsheba, his most famous, and David had eight spouses—too many to give each one a day a week. The situation worsens as we uncover a passage buried in the family Bible of David. 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? David fathered other children through other mothers, and we don’t even know how many. The cynical side of us wonders if David did. What was he thinking? Had he not read God’s instruction: “A man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife” (Gen. 2:24)? One man. One woman. One marriage. Simple addition. David opted for advanced trigonometry.

  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 blew it.

  Going AWOL on his family was David’s greatest failure. Seducing Bathsheba was an inexcusable but explicable act of passion. Murder-ing Uriah was a ruthless yet predictable deed from a desperate heart. But passive parenting and widespread philandering? These were not sins of a slothful afternoon or the deranged reactions of self-defense. David’s family foul-up was a lifelong stupor that cost him dearly.

  Some years ago a young husband came to see me, proud that he had one wife at home and one lover in an apartment. He used David’s infidelity to justify his own. He even said he was considering polygamy. After all, David was a polygamist.

  The right response to such folly is, read the rest of the story.

  Remember Absalom? David finally reunited with him, but it was too late. The seeds of bitterness had spread 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 heavyhearted, lonely, old man. “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” (2 Sam. 15:30).

  Loyalists eventually chase Absalom down. When he tries to escape on horseback, his long hair tangles in a tree, and soldiers spear him. David hears the news and 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? David would have benefited from the counsel of Paul the apostle: “And now a word to you fathers. Don’t make your children angry by the way you treat them” (Eph. 6:4 NLT).

  How do we explain David’s disastrous home? How do we explain David’s silence when it comes to his family? No psalms written about his children. Surely, out of all his wives, one was 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, interceded for his warriors. He offered prayers for Jonathan, his friend, and for Saul, his archrival. But as far as his family is concerned, it’s as if they never existed.

  Was David 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.”

  Was he too guilty to shepherd them? After all, how could David, who had seduced Bathsheba and intoxicated and murdered Uriah, correct his sons when they raped and murdered?

  Too busy. Too important. Too guilty. And now? Too late. A dozen exits too late. But it’s not too late for you. Your home is your giant-size privilege, your towering priority. Do not make David’s tragic mistake. How would you respond to the questions we asked him?

  * * *

  Your home is your giant-size privilege,

  your towering priority.

  * * *

  How’s your marriage?

  Consider it your Testore cello. This finely constructed, seldom-seen instrument has reached the category of rare and is fast earning the status of priceless. Few musicians are privileged to play a Testore; even fewer are able to own one.

  I happen to know a man who does. He, gulp, loaned it to me for a sermon. Wanting to illustrate the fragile sanctity of marriage, I asked him to place the nearly-three-centuries-old instrument on the stage, and I exp
lained its worth to the church.

  How do you think I treated the relic? Did I twirl it, flip it, and pluck the strings? No way. The cello is far too valuable for my clumsy fingers. Besides, its owner loaned it to me. I dared not dishonor his treasure.

  On your wedding day, God loaned you his work of art: an intricately crafted, precisely formed masterpiece. He entrusted you with a one-of-a-kind creation. Value her. Honor him. Having been blessed with a Testore, why fiddle around with anyone else?

  David missed this. He collected wives as 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 one spouse. Fiercely loyal. Don’t even look twice at someone else. No flirting. No teasing. No loitering at her desk or lingering in his office. Who cares if you come across as rude or a prude? You’ve made a promise. Keep it.

  * * *

  On your wedding day, God loaned you his work of art:

  an intricately crafted, precisely formed masterpiece.

  * * *

  And, as you do, nourish the children God gives.

  How are things with your kids?

  Quiet heroes dot the landscape of our society. They don’t wear ribbons or kiss trophies; they wear spit-up and kiss boo-boos. They don’t make the headlines, but they do sew the hemlines and check the outlines and stand on the sidelines. You won’t find their names on the Nobel Prize short list, but you will find their names on the homeroom, carpool, and Bible teacher lists.

  They are parents, both by blood and deed, name and calendar. Heroes. News programs don’t call them. But that’s okay. Because their kids do . . . They call them Mom. They call them Dad. And these moms and dads, more valuable than all the executives and law-makers west of the Mississippi, quietly hold the world together.

  Be numbered among them. Read books to your kids. Play ball while you can and they want you to. Make it your aim to watch every game they play, read every story they write, hear every recital in which they perform.

  Children spell love with four letters: T-I-M-E. Not just quality time, but hang time, downtime, anytime, all the time. Your children are not your hobby; they are your calling.

  Your spouse is not your trophy but your treasure.

  Don’t pay the price David paid. Can we flip ahead a few chapters to his final hours? To see the ultimate cost of a neglected family, look at the way our hero dies.

  David is hours from the grave. A chill has set in that blankets can’t remove. Servants decide he needs a person to warm him, someone to hold him tight as he takes his final breaths.

  * * *

  Children spell love with four letters: T-I-M-E.

  * * *

  Do they turn to one of his wives? No. Do they call on one of his children? No. They seek “for a lovely young woman throughout all the territory of Israel . . . and she cared for the king, and served him; but the king did not know 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 stranger, because he made 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.

  18

  DASHED HOPES

  “I had intended . . .”

  The David who speaks the words is old. The hands that I swung the sling hang limp. The feet that danced before the ark now shuffle. Though his eyes are still sharp, his hair is gray, and skin sags beneath his beard.

  “I had intended . . .”

  A large throng listens. Courtiers, counselors, chamberlains, and caretakers. They’ve assembled at David’s command. The king is tired. The time for his departure is near. They listen as he speaks.

  “I had intended to build . . .”

  Odd way to start a farewell speech. David mentions not what he did but what he wanted to do, yet couldn’t. “I had intended to build a permanent home for the ark of the covenant of the Lord and for the footstool of our God” (1 Chron. 28:2 NASB).

  A temple. David had wanted to build a temple. What he had done for Israel, he wanted to do for the ark—protect it. What he had done with Jerusalem, he wanted to do with the temple—establish it. And who better than he to do so? Hadn’t he, literally, written the book on worship? Didn’t he rescue the ark of the covenant? The temple would have been his swan song, his signature deed. David had expected to dedicate his final years to building a shrine to God.

  At least, that had been his intention. “I had intended to build a permanent home for the ark of the covenant of the Lord and for the footstool of our God. So I had made preparations to build it” (28:2 NASB).

  Preparations. Architects chosen. Builders selected. Blueprints and plans, drawings and numbers. Temple columns sketched. Steps designed.

  “I had intended . . . I had made preparations . . .”

  Intentions. Preparations. But no temple. Why? Did David grow discouraged? No. He stood willing. Were the people resistant? Hardly. They gave generously. Were the resources scarce? Far from it. David “supplied more bronze than could be weighed, and . . . more cedar logs than could be counted” (1 Chron. 22:3–4 NCV). Then what happened?

  A conjunction happened.

  Conjunctions operate as the signal lights of sentences. Some, such as and, are green. Others, such as however, are yellow. A few are red. Sledgehammer red. They stop you. David got a red light.

  I had made preparations to build it. But God said to me, “You shall not build a house for My name because you are a man of war and have shed blood. . . . Your son Solomon is the one who shall build My house and My courts.” (1 Chron. 28:2–3, 6 NASB, emphasis mine)

  David’s bloodthirsty temperament cost him the temple privilege. All he could do was say:

  I had intended . . .

  I had made preparations . . .

  But God . . .

  I’m thinking of some people who have uttered similar words. God had different plans than they did.

  One man waited until his midthirties to marry. Resolved to select the right spouse, he prayerfully took his time. When he found her, they moved westward, bought a ranch, and began their life together. After three short years, she was killed in an accident.

  I had intended . . .

  I had made preparations . . .

  But God . . .

  A young couple turned a room into a nursery. They papered walls, refinished a baby crib, but then the wife miscarried.

  I had intended . . .

  I had made preparations . . .

  But God . . .

  Willem wanted to preach. By the age of twenty-five, he’d experienced enough life to know he was made for the ministry. He sold art, taught language, traded in books; he could make a living, but it wasn’t a life. His life was in the church. His passion was with the people.

  So his passion took him to the coalfields of southern Belgium. There, in the spring of 1879, this Dutchman began to minister to the simple, hardworking miners of Borinage. Within weeks his passion was tested. A mining disaster injured scores of villagers. Willem nursed the wounded and fed the hungry; even scraping the slag heaps to give his people fuel.

  After the rubble was cleared and the dead were buried, the young preacher had earned a place in their hearts. The tiny church over-flowed with people hungry for his simple messages of love. Young Willem was doing what he’d always dreamed of doing.

  But . . .

  One day his superior came to visit. Willem’s lifestyle shocked him. The young preacher wore an old soldier’s coat. His trousers were cut from sacking, and he lived in a simple hut. Willem had given his salary to the people. The church official was unimpressed. “You look more pitiful than the people you came to teach,” he said.

  * * *

&nb
sp; What do you do with the “but God” moments in life?

  * * *

  Willem asked if Jesus wouldn’t have done the same. The older man would have none of it. This was not the proper appearance for a minister. He dismissed Willem from the ministry.

  The young man was devastated.

  He only wanted to build a church. He only wanted to honor God. Why wouldn’t God let him do this work?

  I had intended . . .

  I had made preparations . . .

  But God . . .

  What do you do with the “but God” moments in life? When God interrupts your good plans, how do you respond?

  The man who lost his wife has not responded well. At this writing he indwells a fog bank of anger and bitterness. The young couple is coping better. They stay active in church and prayerful about a child.

  * * *

  David faced the behemoth of disappointment

  with “yet God.” David trusted.

  * * *

  And Willem? Now that’s a story. But before I share it, what about David? When God changed David’s plans, how did he reply? (You’ll like this.)

  He followed the “but God” with a “yet God.”

  Yet, the Lord, the God of Israel, chose me from all the house of my father to be king over Israel forever. For He has chosen Judah to be a leader; and in the house of Judah, my father’s house, and among the sons of my father He took pleasure in me to make me king over all Israel. (1 Chron. 28:4 NASB)

  Reduce the paragraph to a phrase, and it reads, “Who am I to complain? David had gone from runt to royalty, from herding sheep to leading armies, from sleeping in the pasture to living in the palace. When you are given an ice cream sundae, you don't complain over a missing cherry.

  David faced the behemoth of disappointment with “yet God.” David trusted.

  So did Willem. Initially, he was hurt and angry. He lingered in the small village, not knowing where to turn. But one afternoon he noticed an old miner bending beneath an enormous weight of coal. Caught by the poignancy of the moment, Willem began to sketch the weary figure. His first attempt was crude, but then he tried again. He didn’t know it, but at that very moment, Willem discovered his true calling.