A sermon shared with the congregation of the
Suttons Bay Congregational Church
March, 2020
In the earlier years of our married life, Lisa and I liked to mark milestone birthdays by climbing a mountain, usually in the Adirondack region of New York State. You can probably think of any number of reasons that this plan might have been less than a perfectly good idea. But the list of possible objections may become even more clear if I tell you that our birthdays fall in December and February, when weather in those mountains can be, well, a little harsh—especially near the top.
On one of her birthdays, Lisa and I headed up Cascade Mountain, at 4,098 feet one of the Adirondack High Peaks. Although Cascade does not qualify as one of the toughest climbs or tallest mountains, it makes for a good day’s work in snowshoes. The payoff comes at a summit that offers an absolutely stunning 360-degree view of the entire High Peaks range.
It turns out, however, that this unsheltered and unobstructed view comes at a cost. The Adirondack Mountain website euphemistically puts it this way: “be prepared for strong winds … and don’t hesitate to turn around if the weather starts to [go bad].” Undaunted, up we went on a frigid day when the nice people at the park facility at the base were actively debating whether it was safe to let anyone do it. As often holds true for us, we had more enthusiasm than common sense.
The hike went well enough—until we trudged over the final boulders and onto the summit. There we were met with a viciously cold blast of wind, roaring across the mountaintop with such ferocity that we literally dropped to our knees. Still unsteady, we fell over onto our backs so we didn’t get blown away like some sort of Gore-Tex-clad parade balloon.
I would like to tell you that at this moment I thought: “We made it!” Or: “What a wonderful achievement!” Or: “I love this woman so much!” But I didn’t think any of those things, even though we had made it, and it was wonderful, and I did love her a lot—as I still do. No, my thoughts were singularly focused on just two questions: “How did we get here?” and “How do we get out of this?”
I lived to tell the tale, so obviously we escaped. But you should not expect to see us in any Netflix documentaries about high achievements at high altitudes. And I can’t tell you that we looked like frolicking snow leopards when we rolled onto our stomachs and military-crawled our way down to the cover of the nearest tree.
I suspect that recently we’ve all been asking ourselves “How did we get here?” and “How do we get out of this?” In just a matter of weeks, our lives changed dramatically. Sometimes it feels hard, if not impossible, to envision our way out of the “stormy blast” in which we find ourselves.
Our current situation reminds me of one of my favorite New Yorker cartoons. The drawing depicts a small youth in a tunic, holding a slingshot. He stares up, a deeply anxious look settling across on his face. The pitch black shadow from a massive head and shoulders looms over him. The caption reads: “David, trying to remember how Goliath ever got on his calendar.”
Indeed, we could hardly blame David for wondering how he had arrived in that place and how he was going to escape from it intact. In that sense, I think David’s predicament has some stark similarities to our own. And I believe that a close look at his encounter with Goliath has lots of useful lessons for us, now more than ever.
I want to start with the story itself, because it has so much glorious detail. The narrative begins by describing the predicament of Saul, King of the Israelites, who has fallen into disfavor with the Lord. Saul is miserable, tormented, and looking for solace.
His servants come up with an idea and say to the King: hey, find someone who plays the lyre really well (as you know, that’s a small harp popular in antiquity) and he will cheer you up when you’re feeling poorly. They even propose a candidate: a young shepherd named David, the son of Jesse. So Saul sends for David and, sure enough, his music helps—just as music may be consoling some of us these days.
Alas, Saul has problems that music alone will not address: the Philistines have collected their formidable army for battle against the Israelites. The respective forces have gathered on two opposing mountains with a valley in between, staring each other down in a stalemate. This standoff has gone on for a while.
Then a Philistine named Goliath takes it upon himself to come forward and issue a challenge to the Israelites. He says: send your best man, and if he kills me then we will serve you, but if I kill him then you will serve us. Today we call this ritual “single combat,” where each side sends a representative and the winner takes all. Needless to say, it places an awesome responsibility upon each side’s “champion.”
The Israelites greet this invitation with alarm—the Bible tells us that “they were dismayed and greatly afraid.” And we can understand why. Goliath stood “six cubits and a span”—if taken literally, about nine-and-a-half feet tall. He wore a bronze helmet, a coat of mail, and metal armor on his legs. He had a bronze javelin slung between his shoulders, a massive spear, and a shield. In every respect, Goliath fit the description of that technical term used by biblical scholars everywhere: “one scary dude.”
Goliath issued this challenge for forty days, but David apparently didn’t hear of it because he was holding down more than one job, going back and forth between playing music for Saul and tending his father’s sheep. But then events coincide and Goliath repeats his demand while David is in earshot. Unlike his fellow Israelites, David greets this challenge not with terror but with indignation: “Who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God?” With no other volunteers stepping forward and throwing themselves into the fray, David says he will go fight him.
Saul responds to David’s offer with an inventory of reasons for why this is an even worse idea than mountain climbing in the Adirondacks in February. “You are just a boy! You are small and he is very, very, very big! Did I say ‘very?’ He has lots of experience as a warrior! And you only have experience as a shepherd—and a musician!” These protests may help us understand why Saul fell into disfavor with the Lord; his response to David isn’t exactly a show-stopping display of faith. On the other hand, in fairness to Saul, very few among us would under similar circumstances say to ourselves: “Wow, we’re in serious trouble; send for the harpist.”
David points out that actually, thank you very much, his work as a shepherd has trained him well for this day. He has had to rescue his flocks from all manner of wild animals. And David knows the source of his strength: “The Lord, who saved me from the paw of the lion and the paw of the bear, will save me from the hand of the Philistine.” Persuaded, Saul agrees to let him go.
Still, Saul—who never seems to run out of bad ideas—wants to dress David up for battle. So, in a scene that offers us some comic relief from the dramatic tension, Saul starts piling all of his armor and weapons on top of David’s small frame. We can imagine this huge and unwieldy assemblage of metal stacked up, poor David barely visible underneath it all. Finally, David cries out “I cannot walk with these!” and takes the armor off. He picks up the weapons he knows: a staff, a sling, and “five smooth stones.” And off to the battle he heads.
What follows next may qualify as one of history’s earliest examples of trash talking. Goliath makes fun of David and boasts that he’ll make quick work of him. The Philistine calls out: “Come to me, and I will give your flesh to the birds of the air and to the wild animals of the field.” But David replies: “You come to me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come to you in the name of the Lord … [T]he battle is the Lord’s and he will give you into our hand.”
Well, we all know what happens next. Goliath takes a few steps forward. David runs at him, takes a stone from his bag, hurls it from his sling, strikes Goliath in the forehead, and fells him. The seemingly insurmountable threat to an entire people vaporizes. The Philistines take flight. The Israelites rejoice.
I suspect that these days we all have a keen new empathy for David. We face a strong and imposing opponent. Many days we feel small and unarmored. So: What should we do? What does David’s triumph over Goliath have to tell us? What might we see in this story under our present circumstances that we have not seen before?
Let’s start here: it turns out that the story of David and Goliath is, in a fundamental sense, about connectedness. After all, David does not fight this battle for himself. He fights it for every last member of his community. The survival of all of his people depends upon him.
In the same way, we fight now for every last member of our human community. The success of each of us will determine the success of all of us. For some, this will mean battle on the front lines, in the hospital wards and emergency rooms. For others, this will mean more modest measures: staying home, washing our hands, and doing our best to remain connected with all those people who need our encouragement. Those of us who find ourselves in that second camp could do worse than to remember the famous admonition of the poet John Milton: “they also serve, who only stand and wait.”
On closer inspection, we also see that the story of David and Goliath is about the various unanticipated ways in which we become prepared for unexpected battles. David had no prior experience fighting nine-foot-tall brutes with spears and javelins—this appeared nowhere on his resume. But his work as a shepherd had forced him to face daunting circumstances. And he had spent countless hours caring for all those in his flock.
We find ourselves now in a battle we did not anticipate. I suspect that none of us could include in their list of accomplishments: “I was brave, strong, and found constructive things to do during a pandemic.” But, as the saying goes, this is not our first rodeo. All of us have done hard—even very hard—things before. And, as followers of the living God who David celebrated, we have become accomplished at caring for our flocks. Time to break those skills out and brush them off.
One final point about this story. After re-reading it for the hundredth time or so, it occurred to me that maybe we’ve been labeling it with the wrong title for about two-thousand years. This is not really the tale of David vs. Goliath—David was just a valuable helpmate. This is the tale of God vs. Goliath. And once you describe the battle that way, the odds of victory shift pretty dramatically.
In our present battle, too, all of us have a critical role to play as helpmates. But, make no mistake about it, we are not in this alone. If we believe in a God of love, if we believe in a God of grace, if we believe in a God of compassion—then we must believe, as a matter of logical necessity, that God stands with us in this fight. David brought something to his battle that the opposing forces never could have imagined. And so do we to our own.
Sure, we have some hard times ahead of us. Sure, some days will be better than others, and some will be downright awful. But we have the best of company in our engagement with the enemy. As Jesus told his disciples, in that final verse of the Gospel of Matthew, “Remember that I am with you always, even to the very end of the age.”
The story of David and Goliath includes a subtle hint about what that means. As we all know, David defeated the Philistine with the first stone he threw. And as we also know, David started off with “five smooth stones.” But we sometimes fail to do the math: the Lord sent David into battle with five times what he needed to prevail.
We can almost hear Jesus making the point with a parable: “A father sent his child to do battle. He gave him five smooth stones. And if that father would not send his child with only one stone, then how much more will your heavenly father do for you?”
In our hospitals, in our first responders, in our police and fire departments, in the people who continue to serve us in grocery stores and at pharmacies, we see a veritable army gathered around us. We serve in that army, too. We advance the battle every time we call a friend, or make a donation, or send someone an unexpected package, or use this as a good time to get to know our children better, or fall back in love with our spouse, or put aside an ancient grievance.
Right now, this virus is big and scary, casting a giant shadow over us just like that of Goliath over David in the cartoon. But, if we act in God’s love and make the sacrifices for others that he expects of us, we can do nothing but prevail. As David said: “[T]he battle is the Lord’s and he will give it into our hand.”
Yes, we will have fear, worry, and stress. We will experience true and deep grief. Those days come with the territory of being human.
But let us also pray for days when we can channel some of the magnificent indignation that David taught us, and say, as he might have done, “What is this virus, what is this tiny infectious agent, that it should defy the armies of the Living God?”
This will not be easy. But we can do it.
And God will give us stones to spare.
Amen.
