David: Five Sermons

Abigail’s meeting with David under the covert of the hill; her turning him from his purpose of wild revenge by graceful compliments, by the frank, and yet most modest expression of her sympathy and admiration; and David’s chivalrous answer to her chivalrous appeal—all that scene, which painters have so often delighted to draw, is a fore-feeling, a prophecy, as it were, of the Christian chivalry of after ages.  The scene is most human and most divine: and we are not shocked to hear that after Nabal’s death the fair and rich lady joins her fortune to that of the wild outlaw, and becomes his wife to wander by wood and wold.

But amid all the simple and sacred beauty of that scene, we cannot forget, we must not forget that Abigail is but one wife of many; that there is an element of pure, single, all-absorbing love absent at least in David’s heart, which was present in the hearts of our forefathers in many a like case, and which they have handed down to us as an heirloom, as precious as that of our laws and liberties.

And all this was sin unto David; and like all sin, brought with it its own punishment.  I do not mean to judge him: to assign his exact amount of moral responsibility.  Our Lord forbids us positively to do that to any man; and least of all, to a man who only acted according to his right, and the fashion of his race and his age.  But we must fix it very clearly in our minds, that sins may be punished in this life, even though he who commits them is not aware that they are sins.  If you are ignorant that fire burns, your ignorance will not prevent your hand from suffering if you put it into the fire.  If you are of opinion that two and two make five, and therefore spend five pounds while you only possess four, your mistake will not prevent your being in debt.  And so with all mortal affairs.

Sin, αμαρτια, means first, it seems to me, a missing the mark, end, or aim of our existence; a falling short of the law, the ideal, the good works which God has prepared beforehand for us to walk in; and every such sin, conscious or unconscious, must avenge itself by the Divine laws of the universe, whether physical or spiritual.  No miracle is needed; no intervention of God with his own laws.  His laws are far too well made for him to need to break them a second time, because a sinner has broken them already.  They avenge themselves.  And so does polygamy.  So it did in the case of David.  It is a breach of the ideal law of human nature; and he who breaks that law must suffer, as David suffered.

Look at the latter history of David, and at what it might have been.  One can conceive so noble a personage under such woman’s influence as, thank God, is common now, going down into an honoured old age, and living together with a helpmate worthy of him in godly love and honesty to his life’s end; seeing his children Christianly and virtuously brought up, to the praise and honour of God.

And what was the fact?

The indulgence of his passions—seemingly harmless to him at first—becomes most harmful ere he dies.  He commits a crime, or rather a complication of crimes, which stains his name for ever among men.

I do not think that we shall understand that great crime of David’s, if we suppose it, with some theologians, to have been merely a sudden and solitary fall, from which he recovered by repentance, and became for the time to come as good a man as he had ever been.  Such a theory, however well it may fit certain theological systems, does not fit the facts of human life, or, as I hold, the teaching of Scripture.

Such terrible crimes are not committed by men in a right state of mind.  Nemo repente fuit turpissimus.  He who commits adultery, treachery, and murder, must have been long tampering, at least in heart, with all these.  Had not David been playing upon the edge of sin, into sin he would not have fallen.

He may have been quite unconscious of bad habits of mind; but they must have been there, growing in secret.  The tyrannous self-will, which is too often developed by long success and command: the unscrupulous craft, which is too often developed by long adversity, and the necessity of sustaining oneself in a difficult position—these must have been there.  But even they would not have led David to do the deed which he did, had there not been in him likewise that fearful moral weakness which comes from long indulgence of the passions—a weakness which is reckless alike of conscience, of public opinion, and of danger either to earthly welfare or everlasting salvation.

It has been said, ‘But such a sin is so unlike David’s character.’  Doubtless it was, on the theory that David was a character mingled of good and evil.  But on David’s own theory, that he was an utterly weak person without the help of God, the act is perfectly like David.  It is David’s self.  It is what David would naturally do when he had left hold of God.  Had he left hold of God in the wilderness he would have become a mere robber-chieftain.  He does leave hold of God in his palace on Zion, and he becomes a mere Eastern despot.

And what of his sons?

The fearful curse of Nathan, that the sword shall never depart from his house, needs, as usual, no miracle to fulfil it.  It fulfils itself.  The tragedies of his sons, of Amnon, of Absalom, are altogether natural—to have been foreseen, but not to have been avoided.

The young men have seen their father put no restraint upon his passions.  Why should they put restraint on theirs?  How can he command them when he has not commanded himself?  And yet self-restraint is what they, above all men, need.  Upstart princes—the sons of a shepherd boy—intoxicated with honours to which they were not born; they need the severest discipline; they break out into the most frantic licence.  What is there that they may not do, and dare not do?  Nothing is sacred in their eyes.  Luxury, ambition, revenge, vanity, recklessness of decency, open rebellion, disgrace them in the sight of all men.  And all these vices, remember, are heightened by the fact that they are not brothers, but rivals; sons of different mothers, hating each other, plotting against each other; each, probably, urged on by his own mother, who wishes, poor fool, to set up her son as a competitor for the throne against all the rest.  And so are enacted in David’s house those tragedies which have disgraced, in every age, the harems of Eastern despots.

But most significant is the fact, that those tragedies complete themselves by the sin and shame of David’s one virtuous and famous son.  Significant truly, that in his old age Solomon the wise should love strange women, and deserting for their sakes the God of his fathers, end as an idolater and a dotard, worshipping the abominations of the heathen, his once world-famous wisdom sunk into utter folly.

But, it may be said, the punishment of David’s sin fell on his sons, and not upon himself.

How so?  Can there be a more heavy punishment, a more bitter pain, than to be punished in and by his children; to see his own evil example working out their shame and ruin?  But do not fancy that David’s own character did not suffer for his sin.  The theory that he became, instantly on his repentance, as good and great a man as he was before his fall, was convenient enough to certain theologians of past days; but it is neither warranted by the facts of Scripture, nor by the noble agonies, however noble, of the 51st Psalm.

It is a prayer for restoration, and that of the only right and true kind: ‘Take not thy Holy Spirit from me;’ and, as such, it was doubtless heard: but it need not have been fulfilled instantly and at once.  It need not have been fulfilled, it may be, till that life to come, of which David knew so little.  It is a fact, it was not fulfilled in this life.  We read henceforth of no noble and heroical acts of David.  From that time forth—I speak with all diffidence, and merely as it seems to me—he is a broken man.  His attitude in Absalom’s rebellion is all but imbecile.  No act is recorded of him to the day of his death but what is questionable, if not mean and crafty.  The one sudden flash of the old nobleness which he has shewn in pardoning Shimei, he himself stultifies with his dying lips by a mean command to Solomon to entrap and slay the man whom he has too rashly forgiven.  The whole matter of the sacrifice of Saul’s sons is so very strange, so puzzling, even shocking to our ideas of right and wrong, that I cannot wonder at, though I dare not endorse, Coleridge’s bold assertion, that they were sacrificed to a plot of State policy, and the suspicion of some critics, that the whole scene was arranged between David and a too complaisant priesthood, and God’s name blasphemously taken in vain to find a pretext for a political murder.  And so David shivers pitiably to his grave, after a fashion which has furnished a jest for cynics and infidels, but which contains, to the eyes of a wise man, the elements of the deepest tragedy; one more awful lesson that human beauty, valour, wit, genius, success, glory, are vanity of vanities: that man is nothing, and God is all in all.

But some may ask, What has all this to do with us?  To do with us?  Do you think that the Scripture says in vain, ‘All these things are written for our example’?  As long as human nature is what it is now, and was three thousand years ago, so long shall we be tempted to commit the same sins as David: different in outward form, according to the conditions of society; but the same in spirit, the same in sinfulness, and the same in the sure punishment which they bring.  And above all, will men to the end be tempted to the sin of self-indulgence, want of self-control.  In many ways, but surely in some way or other, will every man’s temptation be, to lose self-control.

Therefore settle it in your minds, young men, that the first and the last of all virtues and graces of which God can give is self-control; as necessary for the saint and the sage, lest they become fanatics or pedants, as for the young man in the hey-day of youth and health; but as necessary for the young man as for the saint and the sage, lest, while they become only fanatics and pedants, he become a profligate, and a cumberer of the ground.

Remember this—remember it now in the glorious days of youth which never will return, but in which you are sowing seed of which you will reap the fruit until your dying day.  Know that as you sow, so will you reap.  If you sow to the flesh, you will of the flesh reap corruption; corruption—deterioration, whether of health, of intellect, of character in some shape or other.  You know not, and no man knows, what the curse will be like; but the curse will surely come.  The thing which is done cannot be undone; and you will find that out before, and not merely after your dying day.  Therefore rejoice in your youth, for God has given it to you; but remember, that for it, as for each and all of his gifts, God will bring you into judgment.  And when the hour of temptation comes, go back—go back, if you would escape—to what you all were taught at your mother’s knee concerning the grace of God; for that alone will keep you safe, or angel, or archangel, or any created being safe, in this life and in all lives to come.

SERMON V.  FRIENDSHIP; OR, DAVID AND JONATHAN

2 Samuel i.  26.  I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.

Passing the love of woman!  That is a hard saying.  What love can pass that?  Yet David doubtless spoke truth.  He was a man who must have had reason enough to know what woman’s love was like; and when he said that the love of Jonathan for him passed even that, he bestowed on his friend praise which will be immortal.

The name of Jonathan will remain for ever as the perfect pattern of friendship.

Let us think a little to-day over his noble character and his tragical history.  It will surely do us good.  If it does nothing but make us somewhat ashamed of ourselves, that is almost the best thing which can happen to us or to any man.

We first hear of Jonathan as doing a very gallant deed.  We might expect as much.  It is only great-hearted men who can be true friends; mean and cowardly men can never know what friendship means.

The Israelites were hidden in thickets, and caves, and pits, for fear of the Philistines, when Jonathan was suddenly inspired to attack a Philistine garrison, under circumstances seemingly desperate.  ‘And that first slaughter, which Jonathan and his armour-bearer made, was about twenty men, within, as it were, an half-acre of land, which a yoke of oxen might plough.’

That is one of those little hints which shews that the story is true, written by a man who knew the place—who had probably been in the great battle of Beth-aven, which followed, and had perhaps ascended the rock where Jonathan had done his valiant deed, and had seen the dead bodies lying as they had fallen before him and his armour-bearer.

Then follows the story of David’s killing Goliath, and coming back to Saul with the giant’s head in his hand, and answering modestly to him, ‘I am the son of thy servant Jesse the Bethlehemite.’

‘And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.

‘Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul.

‘And Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was upon him, and gave it to David, and his garments, even to his sword, and to his bow, and to his girdle.’

He loved him as his own soul.  And why?  Because his soul was like the soul of David; because he was modest, he loved David’s modesty; because he was brave, he loved David’s courage; because he was virtuous, he loved David’s virtue.  He saw that David was all that he was himself, and more; and therefore he loved him as his own soul.  And therefore I said, that it is only noble and great hearts who can have great friendships; who admire and delight in other men’s goodness; who, when they see a great and godlike man, conceive, like Jonathan, such an affection for him that they forget themselves, and think only of him, till they will do anything for him, sacrifice anything for him, as Jonathan did for David.

For remember, that Jonathan had cause to hate and envy David rather than love him; and that he would have hated him if there had been any touch of meanness or selfishness in his heart.  Gradually he learnt, as all Israel learnt, that Samuel had anointed David to be king, and that he, Jonathan, was in danger of not succeeding after Saul’s death.  David stood between him and the kingdom.  And yet he did not envy David—did not join his father for a moment in plotting his ruin.  He would oppose his father, secretly indeed, and respectfully; but still, he would be true to David, though he had to bear insults and threats of death.

And mark here one element in Jonathan’s great friendship.  Jonathan is a pious man, as well as a righteous one.  He believes the Lord’s messages that he has chosen David to be king, and he submits; seeing that it is just and right, and that David is worthy of the honour, though it be to the hurt of himself and of his children after him.  It is the Lord’s will; and he, instead of repining against it, must carry it out as far as he is concerned.  Yes; those who are most true to their fellow-men are always those who are true to God; for the same spirit of God which makes them fear God makes them also love their neighbour.

When David escapes from Saul to Samuel, it is Jonathan who does all he can to save him.  The two friends meet secretly in the field.

‘And Jonathan said unto David, O Lord God of Israel, when I have sounded my father about to-morrow any time, or the third day, and, behold, if there be good toward David, and I then send not unto thee, and shew it thee; the Lord do so and much more to Jonathan.’

Then David and Jonathan agree upon a sign between them, by which David may know Saul’s humour without his bow-bearer finding out David.  He will shoot three arrows toward the place where David is in hiding; and if he says to his bow-bearer, The arrows are on this side of thee, David is to come; for he is safe.  But if he says, The arrows are beyond thee, David must flee for his life, for the Lord has sent him away.

Then Jonathan goes in to meat with his father Saul, and excuses David for being absent.

‘Then Saul’s anger was kindled against Jonathan, and he said unto him, Thou son of the perverse, rebellious woman, do not I know that thou hast chosen the son of Jesse to thine own confusion, and unto the confusion of thy mother?  For as long as the son of Jesse liveth upon the ground, thou shalt not be established, nor thy kingdom.  Wherefore now send and fetch him unto me, for he shall surely die.  And Jonathan answered Saul his father, and said unto him, Wherefore shall he be slain? what hath he done?  And Saul cast a javelin at him to smite him; whereby Jonathan knew that it was determined of his father to slay David.’

He goes to the field and shoots the arrows, and gives the sign agreed on.  He sends his bow-bearer back to the city, and David comes out of his hiding-place in the rock Ezel.

‘And as soon as the lad was gone, David arose out of a place toward the south, and fell on his face to the ground, and bowed himself three times; and they kissed one another, and wept one with another, until David exceeded.  And Jonathan said to David, Go in peace, forasmuch as we have sworn both of us in the name of the Lord, saying, The Lord be between me and thee, and between my seed and thy seed for ever.  And he arose and departed: and Jonathan went into the city.’

And so the two friends parted, and saw one another, it seems, but once again, when Jonathan went to David in the forest of Ziph, and ‘strengthened his hand in God,’ with noble words.

After that, Jonathan vanishes from the story of David.  We hear only of him that he died fighting by his father’s side, upon the downs of Gilboa.  The green plot at their top, where the Israelites’ last struggle was probably made, can be seen to this day; and there most likely Jonathan fell, and over him David raised his famous lamentation:

‘O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places.  I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.  How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!’

So ends the beautiful and tragical story of a truly gallant man.  Seldom, indeed, will there be seen in the world such perfect friendship between man and man, as that between Jonathan and David.  Seldom, indeed, shall we see anyone loving and adoring the very man whom his selfish interest would teach him to hate and to supplant.  But still every man may have, and ought to have a friend.  Wretched indeed, and probably deservedly wretched, is the man who has none.  And every man may learn from this story of Jonathan how to choose his friends.

I say, to choose.  No one is bound to be at the mercy of anybody and everybody with whom he may come in contact.  No one is bound to say, That man lives next door to me, therefore he must be my friend.  We are bound not to avoid our neighbours.  They are put near us by God in his providence.  God intends every one of them, good or bad, to help in educating us, in giving us experience of life and manners.  We are to learn from them, live with them in peace and charity, and only avoid them when we find that their company is really doing us harm, and leading us into sin and folly.  But a friend—which is a much deeper and more sacred word than neighbour—a friend we have the right and the power to choose; and our wisest plan will be to copy Jonathan, and choose our friends, not for their usefulness, but for their goodness; not for their worth to us, but for their worth in themselves; and to choose, if possible, people superior to ourselves.  If we meet a man better than ourselves, more wise than ourselves, more learned, more experienced, more delicate-minded, more high-minded, let us take pains to win his esteem, to gain his confidence, and to win him as a friend, for the sake of his worth.

Then in our friendship, as in everything else in the world, we shall find the great law come true, that he that loseth his life shall save it.  He who does not think of himself and his own interest will be the very man who will really help himself, and further his own interest the most.  For the friend whom we have chosen for his own worth, will be the one who will be worth most to us.  The friend whom we have loved and admired for his own sake, will be the one who will do most to raise our character, to teach us, to refine us, to help us in time of doubt and trouble.  The higher-minded man our friend is, the higher-minded will he make us.  For it is written, ‘As iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpeneth the face of his friend.’

Nothing can be more foolish, or more lowering to our own character, than to choose our friends among those who can only flatter us, and run after us, who look up to us as oracles, and fetch and carry at our bidding, while they do our souls and characters no good, but merely feed our self-conceit, and lower us down to their own level.  But it is wise, and ennobling to our own character, to choose our friends among those who are nearer to God than we are, more experienced in life, and more strong and settled in character.  Wise it is to have a friend of whom we are at first somewhat afraid; before whom we dare not say or do a foolish thing, whose just anger or contempt would be to us a thing terrible.  Better it is that friendship should begin with a little wholesome fear, till time and mutual experience of each other’s characters shall have brought about the perfect love which casts out fear.  Better to say with David, ‘He that telleth lies shall not stay in my sight; I will not know a wicked person.  Yea, let the righteous rather smite me friendly and reprove me.  All my delight is in the saints that are in the earth, and in such as excel in virtue.’