Enemy In Your Hands

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1 Samuel 24:1-12; Matthew 4:1-11

January 12, 2014 • Portage First UMC

There is a word we throw around in church circles that seems to mean different things to different people. The word is “holiness,” and whether we realize it or not, that word is a huge part of our heritage as Methodist Christians. John Wesley, our founder, early on in his life was part of a group of young men at Oxford called “The Holy Club,” and they met regularly to hold each other accountable for particular spiritual practices. I was part of a similar group when I was in seminary. Groups like that at least in part tend to define “holiness” as a certain set of practices, things we “do”: prayer, Bible reading, fasting and so on. Part of the reason we are called Methodists is because John Wesley was so “methodical” in his practice of those spiritual disciples. But is that all there is to holiness?

Another word some might use to describe holiness is “rigid." For some, holiness can mean a list of rules and regulations that divide Christians from others. In the “holiness movement” of the 19th century, there were certain sins that were to be avoided if you were going to be a “good Christian.” You didn’t drink or smoke or go to dances—and women were to always were dresses. I’m not sure how that makes you holy, but there are still groups that define holiness in that way—a list of rules. And it’s because of that sort of definition that many who consider themselves “outside” the faith see Christians as judgmental. In other words, they perceive us as people who are only concerned about whether others are following our list of rules, and if they aren’t, we “judge” them or condemn them. There’s a huge part of our culture that sees Christians that way. You’ve probably had people tell you that Christians are just judgmental, that we're overly concerned with rules.

There are, of course, other ways we use the word “holy.” There is a land in the Middle East we call “holy,” not because the land is any different than land you would find elsewhere but because of what happened there in history. There are people we think of as “holy”—in some traditions (not ours!), religious leaders are referred to as “Your Holiness.” There are other places that are thought of as “holy,” including sanctuaries and church buildings. And there are holy moments that come in our lives—special times in worship or at church camp or a big event. I know, for me, one of the holiest times in my life is the first time I walked through Jerusalem and found my heart strangely connected to that place, those streets where Jesus walked. It wasn’t the place so much as what happened there. And then we use the word in other ways: “Holy Cow,” “Holy Moley,” and I remember one man who hit his thumb on a mission trip and desperately wanted not to cuss, so he cried out, “Holy Moses and Joseph!”

But what does “holiness” really mean? When the Bible tells us to “be holy, as God is holy” (cf. 1 Peter 1:16), what does that mean? How can we live the way God calls us to live in the midst of everyday “real life”? We began looking at that question last week by exploring the life of David, and if you missed it, the sermon is online for you to listen to. We began last week exploring David and Goliath, facing the giants in our lives. Many of you named your giant last week on these canvases and prayed for the strength to take them on. But, as I said then, Goliath may have the largest physical giant David took on, he wasn’t the only giant David had to face. This week, in our reading, David is older. He knows he’s been chosen as the next king of Israel, and so does the current king, Saul. David is best friends with Saul’s son, Jonathan, but Saul wants David dead. He sees him merely as a threat to the throne, even though David has made no move against Saul. So David has fled to the wilderness and gathered a group of fighting men around him. He’s sort of a vigilante or hero for hire there in the Judean wilderness. And yet, all the time, he’s really running from and hiding from Saul. Saul has become an enemy. In some ways, Saul is more threatening to David than Goliath was. You see, Goliath was an identified enemy. He was a Philistine, who routinely fought against Israel. Saul is different. He is someone David looked up to, someone David worked for, someone David respected at least because of his office but actually because of his deep friendship with Jonathan and because Saul is David’s father-in-law; David married Saul’s daughter, Michal (1 Samuel 18:27). Saul is someone whom David should have been able to trust, and yet David is there in the wilderness fleeing for his life from the murderous intent of King Saul. And in the midst of that flight, he arrives at a place called En Gedi. There, in the wilderness, David gives us a glimpse of what holiness really looks like.

On my two previous visits to Israel, we had driven by En Gedi on our way to and from Masada, but in 2012, we took the time to stop at this oasis in the middle of the desert. And it is one of the few green spaces in that part of the country. With your back to En Gedi, you face the Dead Sea, the lowest spot on earth, a place where the water is so thick with minerals you cannot sink. Even a non-swimming like me can float in the water! Turn your back to the Dead Sea and you can view one of only two freshwater springs along the hills around the Sea. Most of the springs in that area are tainted with sulphur or salt, but the water at En Gedi flows clear and clean (Knight, The Holy Land, pg. 53). So it was and is a refuge in that inhospitable environment. The day we were there, it was hot. In fact, it was beyond hot. We had already been to Masada, where at 8:00 a.m. it was already over 80 degrees and still climbing. And yes, it’s a dry heat, but it’s still hot. I don’t know what the temperature was when we arrived at En Gedi, but as we started walking through the nature preserve and up toward the spring, the heat was overpowering and it made us long to get to the cool, clear water at the top. In fact, the water felt so good, so refreshing, this picture shows how happy Rachel in particular was to put her feet in it! If I remember right, I think she’s yelling, “It’s so cold!”

The name “En Gedi” means “spring of the young goat,” and wild goats were and are seen frequently around that area. It’s still an oasis today, and a favorite place for swimmers and hikers alike. The day we were there, there were many young Israelis, both singles and families, who were swimming and playing in and around the spring. As we walked upward, I began to understand why David would bring his men here. After who knows how long out in the intense heart, they needed a rest, a refuge, and the cool caves that surround En Gedi, the water that flows there, would provide a perfect place to rest and, at the same, escape Saul’s notice (cf. Peterson, Leap Over a Wall, pg. 76). So David finds a cave, and he and his men hide in it. But someone sees David headed to En Gedi, and goes to tell Saul.

When he gets the message, Saul heads out from his capital and takes with him 3,000 men. Does that seem like overkill to anyone else? He’s chasing one guy and he needs 3,000 soldiers? Either Saul thinks David is a bigger threat than he actually is, or more likely, Saul wants to make a point: you don’t mess with the king. He obviously has resources, and David only has a motley band of men. Three thousand soldiers, able young men from all over Israel, heading out into the desert to catch one guy—and they know where he is. He’s at En Gedi. It’s not that big of an area. Three thousand men is Saul’s show of force, and yet even with all those soldiers, he is still in more danger than he knows. When he passes what seems to be at least a slightly inhabited area (there are sheep pens there), he goes into a cave to answer the call of nature. And it just so happens that it’s the same cave in which David and his men are hiding.

Now, what follows is almost a comical scene. Saul is taking care of his business while David sneaks up on him and cuts off a corner of his robe. Saul never sees or hears David, and we might ask how that could happen. Well, the first thing to remember is that Saul would taken off his robe in order to do what he needed to do in the cave. He probably tossed it off to the side. So David is not actually next to Saul as he cuts the corner off the robe. But the other factor is this, as archaeologists have mentioned: the caves there in the desert are very dark inside. One scholar noted that if you're coming in from the outside, from the bright sunlight, you wouldn't be able to see more than five paces inside. He tried this out himself. David, on the other hand, seems to have been inside for a while, his eyes have adjusted, and he can see everything that is happening at the entrance to the cave. Therefore, he can see Saul but Saul can’t see him. Saul thinks he’s alone, and his enemy is right there near him (cf. Knight 54; Peterson 76).

David’s men want him to kill Saul. This is the perfect opportunity, and he may never get another chance! Get rid of him and you won’t have to flee for your life, you can go home, and you’ll be king. It seems like the ideal situation for David—but David is guided by another hand. Rather than the expedient or the easy thing, David wants to do the holy thing. He wants to do what is right. And so, without a word to his men, he creeps up near Saul, grabs Saul’s robe, and cuts the corner off of it. That one action has a lot of meaning in it that we miss. For one, David is cutting a corner of Saul’s royal robe, symbolically removing Saul’s royal authority, perhaps even meaning to communicate that such authority had been transferred to him, to David. We also have texts from that time period that talk about how cutting someone’s garment was an act of rebellion, or disloyalty. To grab onto someone’s garment was an act of relationship, like the woman who was bleeding and knew she would find healing if she grabbed onto the hem of Jesus’ garment (Matthew 9:20; 14:36). But to cut the garment meant a breaking of relationship (cf. Baldwin, 1 & 2 Samuel [Tyndale OT], pg. 144; Youngblood, “1, 2 Samuel,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 3, pg. 746). Does David intend that meaning here? Is he openly rebelling against Saul at this point? Perhaps he was, because almost as soon as he does it, he is repentant. Like that e-mail you wish you hadn’t sent, or that comment your carelessly made, David is, the Bible says, “conscience-stricken” because of what he did (24:5).

But that could have been that. Saul finishes his business, grabs his robe, doesn’t seem to notice a missing corner, and leaves the cave. He intends to go back out to hunt for David. And, it seems, when he gets a distance away, David comes to the mouth of the cave and calls to Saul: “My lord the king!” (24:8). David had his enemy in his hands, and he chose not to kill him, but still he believes what he did was wrong. The king is God’s anointed, and David still has respect for Saul as God’s chosen, even if he knows God and Saul aren’t on the best of terms. That doesn’t matter to David. It’s not up to him to punish Saul. It’s up to God. “My lord the king!” he calls out, and then he confronts Saul. “Why do you keep saying I’m trying to kill you? I could have, right now, but I chose not to. I have a corner of your robe to prove it. So let’s stop this, my father Saul. Please know I have no intent to harm you.” In part of the passage we didn’t read, then, Saul responds by calling David his “son,” and he tells David this: “You are more righteous than I” (24:16-17). And at the end of the chapter, then, the two men go their way, a shaky peace between them. It doesn’t last long, because in chapter 26, Saul is hunting David again. But David cannot control Saul’s response. The only thing he is responsible for is his action toward and his response to Saul. And it’s that action and that response that makes him, in Saul’s words, “righteous” or “holy.”

Which brings us back to that question we began with: what does it mean to be holy and how do we live that out? We don't often find ourselves in the middle of a desert, hiding in a cave, being pursued by a vengeful king. What does this passage, and David’s action in particular, have to say to us here in twenty-first century America? First of all, this story reminds us that just because others think it’s the best idea doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do. David’s men, who undoubtedly worshipped the same God he did, believed God had brought Saul to this moment specifically so David could kill him. And David began to buy into that, but in short order, he realized that killing Saul was not his job. Holiness happens when we make the choice to walk with God, to do the holy thing instead of the easy thing. Holiness is not always or often obvious. To David’s men, the “right” thing was obvious. To David, it was not so clear. Even when he acted, he knew right away he had done the wrong thing. He had dishonored Saul, and he repented of that action, because everything in David was concerned with following God’s own heart, and that required him to listen to God and practice God’s presence.

That’s why we often substitute real holiness for a rigid list of rules. If we create rules, we think, we can live in such a way that we’ll never sin again. And certainly the call to holiness is a call to avoid the sinful life, but holiness is actually so much broader and deeper than just a list of rules. Rules are easy. We may not think so when we’re trying to follow them; ask any child who is trying to learn the rules of their classroom or even of their home. But following the rules is easy. Holiness, on the other hand, is hard, because it requires us to spend time with God. Holiness is dealing with God and becoming more like him. Holiness is “the human aliveness that comes from dealing with God-Alive” (Peterson 75). It’s becoming more and more like God by being with him. This coming May, Cathy and I will have been married twenty-five years, and over those years, there are many ways we have “rubbed off” on each other. The longer couples are together, the more they seem to become like each other. That’s what happens from prolonged exposure. (That sort of sounds like a disease, doesn’t it? How about “spending a lot of time together”?) I have been a Christian, on the other hand, for over 35 years, and I know I’m not nearly as much like God as I should be because I don’t practice his presence as much as I ought to. Our struggle with holiness, with becoming holy people, comes from the fact that we struggle to spend time with God, to rub up against him, to become more like him. It’s so much easier to draw up a list of rules and become self-righteous than to become like the one who would rather die than live without you. Remember how often Jesus argued with the religious leaders of his day? It was all because Jesus didn't follow their rules. Instead, he lived the God-saturated life, and that was different than anything those religious leaders had thought of before.

At least some of our struggle comes because the Biblical evidence is that holiness grows best in the wilderness. It’s in the times when all the other things we have come to depend upon are stripped away, when we only have God to deal with, that we can grow in real holiness. Wilderness is the place of testing, the place of tempting. When the people of Israel were rescued from slavery in Egypt, they spent forty years in the wilderness, being shaped into the people God wanted them to be. In the wilderness, they learned to deal with God. They learned to worship, to live lives that were pleasing to God, to deal with each other in authentic relationships, and to trust God even for the most basic of things like food. In the wilderness, Israel became God’s people. Centuries later, the Son of God went from his baptism into the wilderness, the same wilderness David wandered in. He was there for forty days and nights, and we have no idea what he did during that time except that he fasted, and near the end of the time he faced three temptations. “Turn the stones to bread,” the tempter said. The temptation to be relevant, to provide what people think they most need. And Jesus said, “People do not live by bread alone. There’s more to life than bread.” Okay, the tempter said, then “throw yourself off the temple. The angels will catch you.” The temptation to be spectacular, to put on a show, to attract attention by some incredible presentation. And Jesus said, “Don’t put God to a test.” Well then, the tempter said, “Bow down and I’ll give you all the kingdoms of the world.” The temptation to be powerful, to have it all, to have people in awe of you. And Jesus said, “Worship the Lord your God only” (Matthew 4:1-11; cf. Nouwen, In the Name of Jesus; Peterson 75). The temptations of life can only be overcome in the wilderness, where there is only God to depend on. It was only after the temptations had been dealt with that Jesus headed out to preach and to do ministry—to die and to save. Holiness comes in the wilderness.

And so we find David, in the wilderness, enemy in his hands. The temptation to win, to be right, to be king. But David has learned something during his time in the wilderness. He isn’t in charge. He isn’t the one who moves the world. You see, this story of David at En Gedi is a story about trusting God to take care of retribution, to deal with those who threaten us, those who are “enemies.” Vengeance or retribution or payback is something we often want to take care of ourselves. How many times have you felt like you knew what was right and you had the duty and the responsibility to mete out punishment, to dole out justice on your own? For most of us, the question would more likely be, “How many times this week?” That guy who cut you off in traffic—what did you imagine you’d like to do to him? That person who had fifteen items in the ten item lane—didn’t you want to say something to them? That person who made that post about you on Facebook—wouldn’t it be easy just to blast one back? The ongoing struggle with your ex-spouse, the argument between you and the neighbor that never seems to end, the unjust situation that the government perpetuates or maybe even started—holiness is not something that we just theoretically talk about. Holiness is lived out faith. Holiness is where the rubber meets the road. Holiness is the way we respond to every situation in which the enemy is in our cave, and we could do something, we could take matters into our own hands—but the question is this: what is God’s part in this? And how would God have us respond?

David, you may remember, was not only a soldier; he also wrote songs—prayer songs. In fact, many of the songs in the book of psalms in our Bible claim to be written by, about or for David. The psalm that’s usually associated with this story is Psalm 57, which begins this way: “Have mercy on me, my God, have mercy on me, for in you I take refuge. I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings until the disaster has passed” (57:1). Now, whether or not David wrote this song before or after or even during his encounter with Saul at En Gedi is anyone’s guess, but the word he uses here to describe God is certainly appropriate: “refuge.” Originally, this word described a physical place someone would go to hide, or to feel safe. We all probably have those places; I know I do. Call it your “safe place” or your “happy place,” it’s a refuge, a familiar setting where you can go when everything seems out of control. But in the psalms, this word loses its physical meaning. It doesn’t necessarily refer to a specific place; it refers more to a person, to God. God is our refuge. When we feel threatened, when it seems our enemies will overtake us, when trouble seems near, the challenge and call of the psalms is for us to flee to God. “In you I take refuge,” David says. Now, obviously, he can’t literally take “refuge” inside God. But in God’s presence, David feels secure, safe, because he knows God is big enough to handle whatever comes his way, whatever enemy threatens him. Do we believe that about God, really? We may sing or even pray about God being our refuge, but when trouble comes, we tend to try to deal with it ourselves. We want to defeat the enemy through our own action. Not David. He could have. He knows he could have killed Saul right then and there. But instead, he chooses to repent of his rebellion against God’s chosen one and allow God to take care of the future. That’s holiness. That’s allowing God to be our refuge.

To live that way requires us to live in God’s presence constantly. Now, it’s easy for us to immediately think of the typical ways we “meet God”—prayer, worship, reading the Bible, holy communion. And those are all good and important ways for us to connect with God. But God can and must also be met and found in the daily activities of life. We spend more time with those sorts of things, the so-called “ordinary” moments, than we do in worship or in prayer. Brother Lawrence, a seventeenth century monk, once said he found God as much in his kitchen as he did at prayer. In a book called Practicing the Presence of God, he wrote this: “The time of business does not with me differ from the time of prayer, and in the noise and clatter of my kitchen, while several persons are at the same time calling for different things, I possess God in as great tranquility as if I were upon my knees at the blessed sacrament.” Our homes are busy. Our lives are busy. We use that reality as an excuse, to say, “I don’t have time for God. I’m too busy.” But exactly the opposite is true. When we’re so very busy, we need to find the presence of God in the midst of the mess even more. In the midst of all those activities, with kids and grandkids calling out our name, we pray, “Lord, you are present here. Make me aware of your presence.” Frank Laubach, a missionary and literacy advocate, once wrote about what he called a “game with minutes,” in which he challenged himself to become more aware of God each and every minute for a whole hour each day. Can we do that? When we allow God to invade the ordinariness of our lives, we’re on the road to holiness.

There’s another place we find God’s presence. Jesus tells us we find him in the least of these. The call to holiness is a call to seek God’s presence in the face of human need. “Christ meets us in the faces of the poor, the broken, the hungry, the lonely, the disenfranchised.” Mother Teresa said she saw the face of Christ whenever she held a dying leper. It’s our tendency not to see the face of human need. We’d rather write a check or send some food, but don’t bother me with the faces. But here’s the question: do we want to see the presence of God? He is found in the least of these (cf. Seamands, Holiness of Heart and Life, pgs. 43-49). There’s a new ministry about to be birthed here through our Outreach Team and led by Steve Massow, a ministry that reaches out into the jails and the prisons. Not a lot has been set about what that’s going to look like yet; in fact, you can have a hand in shaping it by coming to the meeting next Sunday after the third service. Prisoners are specifically mentioned in the Bible as ways we experience the presence of Christ. Hebrews says, “Continue to remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison” (13:3). There are many other ways to see the face of Christ in the places of human need, but the point is this: holiness is about living our faith in the midst of the world, choosing to do the right thing rather than the easy thing or the “everyone else says to do it” thing. Holiness is about living in the presence of God each and every moment of each and every day.

Now, I know it would be easier for all of us if I could stand here and give us all a list of “do’s” and “don’ts,” a list of “this is what you always do” or “this is what you always don’t do” in order to be holy. Lists are easy. We can check them off and know if we’ve achieved the standard or not. Holiness is hard because it permeates everything we do and everything we are with the presence of God. It calls us to a God-drenched, God-centered life. We’re not allowed to compartmentalize our lives any longer. As Leonard Sweet puts it, “We are not called to imitate Christ but to become a Christian—to so allow Christ’s resurrection presence to live in us that we can say, in the apostle Paul’s words, ‘to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain’” (I Am a Follower, pg. 145, Kindle Edition). Holiness is not easy; that’s why it’s not something we do. It’s who we are.

John Wesley preached this truth his entire life. In 1755, on an August Monday in London, Wesley preached about what it meant to follow Christ fully. He explained that our life with Christ is a covenant, and then he proceeded to explain what that covenant, that relationship, is like. That was the first time the people called Methodist prayed together what has come to be known as the covenant prayer. The text of that day’s gathering has been lost to history, but in 1780, Wesley published a little book called Directions for Renewing our Covenant With God, and that covenant prayer has come to be, as one author put it, “one of the most distinctive contributions of Methodism to the liturgy of the church in general.” Wesley used the prayer at various times during the year, but it has become our habit in the twenty-first century to each year, near the beginning of the year, renew our covenant and our commitment to Christ, to recommit to this life of holiness, this whole-life dependence on God. So this morning, as we have done for several years, we’re going to share together in a covenant service. I’ve been writing on my blog this week reflections on this prayer, and my concern for myself, as well as for all of us, is that it’s too easy to say the words, to just read what’s on the paper or on the screen without thinking much about it. So, this morning, I challenge you to pray these words. Don’t just say them because it’s your turn and that’s what you’re supposed to say. Pray these words. Let this time of covenant renewal be a true conversation between you and God, a time of growing in holiness and righteousness. If you’ll join me, then, let’s pray together and commit ourselves again this year to God.