Felix Culpa!

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

2 Samuel 12:1-7; John 8:1-11; Psalm 51

February 2, 2014 • Portage First UMC

She was on the ground, half-naked and ashamed. When they broke in and grabbed her, she hadn’t had time to dress properly. Now they stood in a circle, facing her, taunting her, calling her all sorts of names, names she never expected to hear coming from the mouths of religious leaders. He had left at some point in the confusion, and she began to believe that he was in cahoots with them. Maybe he had never loved her at all. She didn’t know, and it really didn’t matter, because at this point, the next thing she expected to feel were the stones. All of them had one. They were all ready to throw them at her. She expected that a few well-placed hits would knock her out, and then she would die. That was, after all, the penalty for what she had done. She knew that when she got into this mess, but she couldn’t help herself. Or at least that’s what she had told herself these last few weeks. She loved him, or so she thought. Why were they waiting? Why weren’t they throwing the stones? They seemed to be waiting on the approval of a young rabbi whom they had pulled into the discussion. “Teacher,” they said to him, “this woman was caught in the act of adultery. In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. What do you say?” (8:5). He hadn’t said anything yet. Instead, he had stooped down, near her, and was scribbling in the sand. Something—she couldn’t make out what he was writing or drawing. But he wasn’t saying anything. And they were getting impatient. Why didn’t he just agree with them and get it over with?

Why, indeed. After all, the religious leaders were exactly correct. They knew the law, and they knew the punishments for breaking the law. Jesus couldn’t argue with their reasoning, no matter how much he might want to dispute their methods. So, rather than responding to them, he throws them off balance by kneeling in the dirt and writing…something. We don't know what; John doesn’t tell us. As I told the Disciple class last Sunday, it’s amazing to me that this is the only time we have any indication Jesus wrote down anything, and no one was taking notes. No one knows what he wrote that day in the dirt. Some people suggest he was writing their names and their sins in the dirt. Some say he was just doodling. Perhaps he was writing out the Ten Commandments. Or maybe, just maybe, he was writing the words, “Remember David.”

David, of course, was considered the greatest king of Israel. He was an ancestor of Jesus, as well. The religious leaders considered David a model in so many ways; he was called a “man after God’s own heart.” And yet, as we’ve been looking at his story over these weeks, we’ve seen he was far from perfect. He is no stained-glass saint. He is simply a man who tried to take his faith in God and apply it in real life. And for David, just like for all of us, it’s a constant struggle to keep our eyes fixed on God, to stay focused on what God wants and how God calls us to live. This morning, we come to a point in David’s life that not only derailed him but will have consequences throughout the rest of his life and ripples across his family life. It all begins in 2 Samuel 11, when David makes a choice to stay home from war.

We’re told it’s spring, the time when kings go off to war. But David, rather than going himself, sends Joab, his general, to demonstrate his authority over the city of Rabbah (modern-day Amman in Jordan). This isn’t a major war; this is a raiding party, meant to attack and loot and bring back stuff (Peterson, Leap Over a Wall, pg. 182). It’s not a battle that requires the king’s presence; Joab will do fine. Besides, David is older now and firmly established as the king. He doesn’t need to prove himself in battle anymore. But it also seems like David is bored. He’s met all the challenges of life, he thinks. Battle doesn’t seem to interest much anymore; he’s fought so much. So he’s hanging around the palace, taking an afternoon nap, and engaging in evening strolls on the palace rooftop. One night, during his stroll, he sees a very beautiful woman bathing on her rooftop. Now, most people went to their rooftops for privacy, but David can see their homes because the palace was above everything else, higher than other buildings in Jerusalem. This allowed the king to literally keep an eye on the inhabitants of the city (Goldingay, 1 & 2 Samuel for Everyone, pgs. 140-141). So he sees her, and then sends for information about her. Even after learning she is married to one of his top soldiers, he still has her brought to the palace, where he sleeps with her. Then he discards her, sending her back home. Bathsheba is just a momentary pleasure for David; he doesn't love her. In fact, David is never said to love anyone (Goldingay 141). His power instead has made him see people as things, and that’s the first step down a dangerous road.

David would probably not have given Bathsheba a second thought had he not received word that she was pregnant. The only words Bathsheba speaks are those that move David further down that dangerous road: “I am pregnant.” So he devises a plan. He calls her husband home from the front, gives him a leave thinking he will go home and sleep with his wife. Then, the child will be thought to belong to Uriah. But Uriah, maybe suspecting something is up, or that his loyalty is being tested, refuses to go home. He sleeps on the palace porch. David gives him two chances, even gets him drunk one night so that he might stagger home, but Uriah remains loyal to the king and to his colleagues in battle. If only David were as loyal to Uriah. When he sends Uriah back to the battle, he sends along orders for Joab to make sure Uriah is killed in the fighting. And when Bathsheba’s period of mourning is over, David brings her again to the palace and marries her. Now everything’s taken care of. No one will know. It really reads like a soap opera or even a story from a modern newspaper, doesn’t it? Turn on the news or an afternoon talk show and you’ll hear similar stories every day in our world. And no one would have known. David would have gotten away with it—except for one thing. The very last verse in chapter 11 says this: “But the thing David had done displeased the Lord” (11:27).

It’s at that moment we realize we haven't heard a thing about God in this story. And that’s because David is the one who is acting like God. Throughout this story, David has been playing God, and you can see that through the use of one little word: “send.” It shows up over and over again in this story. David sends Joab to battle. David sends to find out about Bathsheba. David sends for Bathsheba. David orders Joab to send Uriah back to the capital, and he tries to send Uriah to his own home. David sends Uriah back to the battle carrying his own death sentence. And after Bathsheba mourns for Uriah, David sends for her to come and marry him. David forgets who is really in charge; he thinks he is. He’s playing God with people’s lives, and he forgets that God and only God is the one who sends. As Eugene Peterson observes, virtually all sins come from the same root: the desire to be gods ourselves (Peterson 184). That was, after all, the promise the serpent made to Eve in the Garden of Eden: “You will be like God” (Genesis 3:5). That temptation, to be like God, is the one that causes us to try to take charge of our own life and assume control over others, to be “senders.” David sent, but his “sending” ends at the beginning of chapter 12, when God steps in: “The Lord sent Nathan to David” (12:1).

I did a quick Google search of the way this scene has been portrayed in artwork throughout the years, and there seems to be really two options. One is an angry Nathan face to face with David. The other portrayed has David on his throne with Nathan pointing his finger at him. Nathan is a prophet, a preacher of Israel, and seems to have been, in some sense of the word, David’s pastor. I picture this scene taking place during a walk, the two of them talking about the state of the kingdom. And Nathan says to David, “Can I tell you a story?” David enjoys the stories Nathan tells, so he agrees, and David is caught completely unawares that Nathan is really preaching a sermon. The story is about a poor man with a single lamb and a rich neighbor who had many sheep. When the rich man has company, and needs to feed his visitor, he doesn't want to “waste” one of his own flock on the traveler, so he takes the poor man’s lamb, just because he could, and he serves it for dinner. David is deeply involved in the story, maybe because he remembers being a shepherd. Maybe someone once did that to him and his flock. We don’t really know why, but David grossly overreacts. He “burns with anger,” we’re told, and says, “As surely as the Lord lives, the man who did this must die! He must pay for that lamb four times over, because he did such a thing and had no pity” (12:5-6).

There are typically two reactions we have to sin. David demonstrates the first one here. When he thinks the sinner is someone else, he jumps to an extreme, a punishment far beyond even what was required or expected in the law of Moses for the stealing of a lamb (cf. Goldingay 144). But that’s the kind of response we often have when we think the sin is about someone else. David gets all worked up about this nameless other person’s sin. As Eugene Peterson puts it, “That kind of religious response is worthless: it's the religion of the college dormitory bull session, the TV spectacular, the talk-show gossip. It’s the religion of moral judgmentalism, self-righteous finger-pointing, the religion of accusation and blame…Pitying and judging are religious sentiments that can be indulged endlessly, making us feel vastly superior to everyone around us, but they’re incapable of making a particle of difference in our lives” (185). But, as David demonstrates, that’s the easy response, because it’s easier to focus on someone else’s sin rather than our own. And then comes Nathan’s punchline: “You are the man!” (12:7), and David responds in a different way.

The second reaction we often have, when we recognize our own sin, is to beat ourselves up. David, in a sense, does this after Nathan’s confrontation. When he admits his sin, and is told that there will be a punishment, David throws himself on the ground, weeping and begging God to take away the punishment. He doesn’t eat, he doesn’t sleep much, and the elders of his household are afraid to say too much to him. Now, while this response recognizes the seriousness of the sin, of the breach in the relationship with God, it’s still really pretty self-centered. Even though David recognizes that he has sinned against God, he’s still begging God to do his will. His mourning and outward signs of remorse are all about him, all about David. He’s not yet moved to a place where he is willing to not be in control, to not play God.

And so there’s a third response, a helpful response, when we’re confronted with our sin, and that’s what St. Augustine summed up in the Latin phrase felix culpa. That phrase has been translated in various ways, but basically it means “happy sin.” Now, that’s rather strange, isn’t it? You don’t often hear preachers saying those two words together, do you? Usually it’s like the man who came home from church and his wife asked what the pastor preached about. He said, “Sin.” His wife prodded him a bit more and asked, “What’d he say about it?” “He’s against it.” And so we are. But Augustine saw beyond the act to what our sin enabled or caused. Felix culpa is not celebrating sin for sin's sake. Rather, as musician Audrey Assad put it in a song this past year, “O happy fault…fortunate fall, that gained for us so great a Redeemer.” That is the Gospel message: that in spite of our sin, a redeemer, a savior was sent for us. We don’t have to do anything to be forgiven except accept his grace, his mercy, his love. But that’s hard, because that means we’re not in control anymore. It’s hard for David, because he made the mess and thinks he ought to be able to clean it up. He’s still playing God. “Only when I recognize and confess my sin am I in a position to respond to the God who saves me from my sin” (Peterson 186). When we stop playing God long enough to throw ourselves on the savior, on Jesus, and let him do the forgiveness work, that’s when we find real forgiveness. Felix culpa—happy sin!

David gets there in the psalm that is associated with this story, Psalm 51. It’s a rather famous song and has been set to modern music more than once. “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin” (51:1-2). Do you hear the difference between what has come before and this psalm? Everything before was all about David, what he had done, how he had done it, and about him finding a way out. This psalm is, instead, all about God and what God can do and will do with a repentant heart. Mercy. Love. Compassion. Cleanser of our sin. O happy sin that leads us to so great a redeemer. That’s the Gospel message. “David’s sin, enormous as it was, was wildly outdone by God’s grace…It’s always a mistake to concentrate attention on our sins; it’s God’s work on our sins that’s the main event” (Peterson 189).

We understand David. It’s far easier to focus on our sins, or to focus on someone else’s sins. Our culture thrives on that kind of “spectatorism.” Whenever I’m sick and laying on the couch during the day, I flip through the channels and wonder who watches those shows. I mean, if you do, I’m sorry, but what pass for talk shows today are really just excuses to watch someone else’s sins. Much of prime time “reality” programming is the same way. And yet, if people weren’t watching, they wouldn’t make those shows. We understand David. It’s far easier to focus on the sins, on ourselves, on others, to judge them and thank God that we are not like them than it is to focus on the God who wants to rescue us from our own sin. You see, the reality is, we all mess up. We all sin. Paul says, “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). “In the Christian life our primary task isn’t to avoid sin, which is impossible anyway, but to recognize sin” (Peterson 186) because the good news of the Gospel is what Paul goes on to say, that “all are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus” (Romans 3:24). In dealing with our sin, our focus should be less on what we or someone else have done, and more on what God can and will do.

That’s why David prays the way he does later on in Psalm 51. Listen to these beautiful words: “Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me from your presence or take your Holy Spirit from me. Restore to me the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me” (51:10-12). I’ve been especially taken by that last verse over the last several months: restore to me the joy of your salvation. “Restore” means David realizes he once had a better relationship with God—you know, back when he wasn’t trying to be God—and he wants that relationship back. Restore to me the joy. The word means “mirth, gladness, exultation.” It means something displayed, not something kept secret. David’s not talking about just smiling even though your world is falling apart. He longs for that joy, that deep down sense that life is good even when it’s hard, to be evident in his heart again. For me, there are circumstances that will threaten that joy. I am one who broods over things, one who can easily let bad things push that joy aside. That’s one reason I need this prayer. I need God to remind me often that life is good, that he is good, and that the worst thing is never the last thing. Joy, deep down unspeakable joy. And that joy, David says, comes not from circumstances, not from people, not from having more stuff, not from achieving some goal or dream. That joy comes from where? Restore to me the joy of your salvation. That joy comes as we realize that we have a finite number of ways to sin, but God has an infinite number of ways to forgive (cf. Peterson 190). There is nothing we can do that can exhaust God’s ability to create a clean heart within us and to restore the joy in our soul.

And that brings us back the woman huddled on the ground with Jesus doodling in the dirt nearby. After the religious leaders goad him for a while, Jesus finally does say something, words that have echoed throughout the centuries: “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her” (8:7). And then he kneels down and starts playing in the dirt again. We’re not told how long the silence was, but I imagine there was a least a bit of time while the religious leaders realize they have been undone by the grace of Jesus Christ. John tells us that they started dropping their rocks and leaving, beginning with the oldest. If only we would learn the lesson Jesus taught that day, we would be far less likely to throw rocks at others while there is still reason in our lives for us to drop them. When everyone is gone, Jesus looks at the woman and asks a question he already knows the answer to: “Where are they? Has no one condemned you?” Trembling, she responds, “No one, sir,” knowing that he still could. But Jesus puts that concern to rest, helping her up. “Neither do I condemn you,” he says. “Go now and leave your life of sin” (8:10-11).

I imagine that woman, at that moment, was the very picture of having your joy restored. A women who thought she was dead finds new life. But then again, that’s a picture of salvation. We who were dead in our sins, with our relationship to God broken beyond repair, find that Jesus stands there, carpentry kit in hand, ready to build a new bridge of hope and forgiveness and reconciliation. He restores to us the joy of our salvation. No matter what your sin is, no matter what you have done, no matter where you have gone, and no matter who you have harmed, Jesus waits to restore to you the joy of your salvation, just as he did for the woman caught in adultery, and just as his father did for a king trapped in thinking he was God. You see, “God doesn’t have mercy on us because we deserve it. God has mercy on us because that is God’s nature” (Goldingay 146). That’s who God is.

“Restore to me the joy of your salvation…” (51:12). For me, in my own life, joy often gets displaced because I get caught up in the hustle and bustle, the hurry of the way life goes. Finding joy requires us to have time to reach down into the deep places of our lives, yet most of us live on the surface. So we put on a smiley face and pretend everything’s okay, when it’s not. We’re told in the Bible that God speaks through a still, small voice, a voice that’s hard to hear when there are other voices around. So, for me, I need time and space to quiet down, to allow God to pour joy into my heart and life, to remember that it’s not about what I’ve done but about what God can and will do. This morning, as you come forward to receive communion, there are cards on the kneeler rails that simply have one verse on them: Psalm 51:12. I invite you to take a card this week and put it somewhere you will see it, somewhere it can call you to prayer, and then pray this verse all week. Allow these words of David, from so long ago, to be the guiding prayer for your week. Restore to me, God, the joy of your salvation…and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me. Pray those words this week and remember that it’s all about what God can and will do.

That was certainly the case on that last night Jesus was with his disciples, when he gave them what we have come to call holy communion. He wanted them to have a tangible reminder of what he was going to do the next day, when he would give his life to save us from our sins. The cross was to be a symbol of mercy, grace and forgiveness. An instrument of torture transformed into a sign of hope. Ordinary bread and wine transformed into reminders of grace. A final meal that ultimately became a place of joy, for this meal reminds us of what God did through Jesus to forgive us, to heal us, to restore our joy. This table really is the place where we can say, “Felix culpa! O happy sin that led us to so great a redeemer!”