_DAVID AND NATHAN._
2 SAMUEL xii. 1-12; 26-31.
It is often the method of the writers of Scripture, when the stream
of public history has been broken by a private or personal incident,
to complete at once the incident, and then go back to the principal
history, resuming it at the point at which it was interrupted. In this
way it sometimes happens (as we have already seen) that earlier events
are recorded at a later part of the narrative than the natural order
would imply. In the course of the narrative of David's war with Ammon,
the incident of his sin with Bathsheba presents itself. In accordance
with the method referred to, that incident is recorded straight on to
its very close, including the birth of Bathsheba's second son, which
must have occurred at least two years later. That being concluded,
the history of the war with Ammon is resumed at the point at which it
was broken off. We are not to suppose, as many have done, that the
events recorded in the concluding verses of this chapter (vv. 26-31)
happened later than those recorded immediately before. This would imply
that the siege of Rabbah lasted for two or three years--a supposition
hardly to be entertained; for Joab was besieging it when David first
saw Bathsheba, and there is no reason to suppose that a people like
the Ammonites would be able to hold the mere outworks of the city for
two or three whole years against such an army as David's and such a
commander as Joab. It seems far more likely that Joab's first success
against Rabbah was gained soon after the death of Uriah, and that his
message to David to come and take the citadel in person was sent not
long after the message that announced Uriah's death.
In that case the order of events would be as follows: After the
death of Uriah, Joab prepares for an assault on Rabbah. Meanwhile,
at Jerusalem, Bathsheba goes through the form of mourning for her
husband, and when the usual days of mourning are over David hastily
sends for her and makes her his wife. Next comes a message from Joab
that he has succeeded in taking the city of waters, and that only
the citadel remains to be taken, for which purpose he urges David to
come himself with additional forces, and thereby gain the honour of
conquering the place. It rather surprises one to find Joab declining
an honour for himself, as it also surprises us to find David going
to reap what another had sowed. David, however, goes with "all the
people," and is successful, and after disposing of the Ammonites he
returns to Jerusalem. Soon after Bathsheba's child is born; then
Nathan goes to David and gives him the message that lays him in the
dust. This is not only the most natural order for the events, but it
agrees best with the spirit of the narrative. The cruelties practised
by David on the Ammonites send a thrill of horror through us as we
read them. No doubt they deserved a severe chastisement; the original
offence was an outrage on every right feeling, an outrage on the law
of nations, a gratuitous and contemptuous insult; and in bringing
these vast Syrian armies into the field they had subjected even the
victorious Israelites to grievous suffering and loss, in toil, in
money, and in lives.
Attempts have been made to explain away the severities inflicted
on the Ammonites, but it is impossible to explain away a plain
historical narrative. It was the manner of victorious warriors in
those countries to steel their hearts against all compassion toward
captive foes, and David, kind-hearted though he was, did the same.
And if it be said that surely his religion, if it were religion of
the right kind, ought to have made him more compassionate, we reply
that at this period his religion was in a state of collapse. When his
religion was in a healthy and active state, it showed itself in the
first place by his regard for the honour of God, for whose ark he
provided a resting-place, and in whose honour he proposed to build
a temple. Love to God was accompanied by love to man, exhibited in
his efforts to show kindness to the house of Saul for the sake of
Jonathan, and to Hanun for the sake of Nahash. But now the picture
is reversed; he falls into a cold state of heart toward God, and in
connection with that declension we mark a more than usually severe
punishment inflicted on his enemies. Just as the leaves first become
yellow and finally drop from the tree in autumn, when the juices that
fed them begin to fail, so the kindly actions that had marked the
better periods of his life first fail, then turn to deeds of cruelty
when that Holy Spirit, who is the fountain of all goodness, being
resisted and grieved by him, withholds His living power.
In the whole transaction at Rabbah David shows poorly. It is not
like him to be roused to an enterprise by an appeal to his love of
fame; he might have left Joab to complete the conquest and enjoy the
honour which his sword had substantially won. It is not like him to
go through the ceremony of being crowned with the crown of the king
of Ammon, as if it were a great thing to have so precious a diadem
on his head. Above all, it is not like him to show so terrible a
spirit in disposing of his prisoners of war. But all this is quite
likely to have happened if he had not yet come to repentance for his
sin. When a man's conscience is ill at ease, his temper is commonly
irritable. Unhappy in his inmost soul, he is in the temper that most
easily becomes savage when provoked. No one can imagine that David's
conscience was at rest. He must have had that restless feeling which
every good man experiences after doing a wrong act, before coming to
a clear apprehension of it; he must have been eager to escape from
himself, and Joab's request to him to come to Rabbah and end the war
must have been very opportune. In the excitement of war he would
escape for a time the pursuit of his conscience; but he would be
restless and irritable, and disposed to drive out of his way, in the
most unceremonious manner, whoever or whatever should cross his path.
We now return with him to Jerusalem. He had added another to his long
list of illustrious victories, and he had carried to the capital
another vast store of spoil. The public attention would be thoroughly
occupied with these brilliant events; and a king entering his capital
at the head of his victorious troops, and followed by waggons laden
with public treasure, need not fear a harsh construction on his
private actions. The fate of Uriah might excite little notice; the
affair of Bathsheba would soon blow over. The brilliant victory that
had terminated the war seemed at the same time to have extricated the
king from a personal scandal. David might flatter himself that all
would now be peace and quiet, and that the waters of oblivion would
gather over that ugly business of Uriah.
"But the thing that David had done displeased the Lord."
"And the Lord sent Nathan unto David."
Slowly, sadly, silently the prophet bends his steps to the palace.
Anxiously and painfully he prepares himself for the most distressing
task a prophet of the Lord ever had to go through. He has to
convey God's reproof to the king; he has to reprove one from whom,
doubtless, he has received many an impulse towards all that is high
and holy. Very happily he clothes his message in the Eastern garb of
parable. He puts his parable in such life-like form that the king
has no suspicion of its real character. The rich robber that spared
his own flocks and herds to feed the traveller, and stole the poor
man's ewe lamb, is a real flesh-and-blood criminal to him. And the
deed is so dastardly, its heartlessness is so atrocious, that it
is not enough to enforce against such a wretch the ordinary law of
fourfold restitution; in the exercise of his high prerogative the
king pronounces a sentence of death upon the ruffian, and confirms
it with the solemnity of an oath--"The man that hath done this thing
shall surely die." The flash of indignation is yet in his eye, the
flush of resentment is still on his brow, when the prophet with calm
voice and piercing eye utters the solemn words, "Thou art the man!"
Thou, great king of Israel, art the robber, the ruffian, condemned by
thine own voice to the death of the worst malefactor! "Thus saith the
Lord God of Israel, I anointed thee king over Israel, and I delivered
thee out of the hand of Saul; and I gave thee thy master's house, and
thy master's wives into thy bosom, and gave thee the house of Israel
and of Judah; and if that had been too little I would moreover have
given thee such and such things. Wherefore hast thou despised the
commandment of the Lord, to do evil in His sight? Thou hast killed
Uriah the Hittite with the sword, and hast slain him with the sword
of the children of Ammon."
It is not difficult to fancy the look of the king as the prophet
delivered his message--how at first when he said, "Thou art the man,"
he would gaze at him eagerly and wistfully, like one at a loss to
divine his meaning; and then, as the prophet proceeded to apply his
parable, how, conscience-stricken, his expression would change to one
of horror and agony; how the deeds of the last twelve months would
glare in all their infamous baseness upon him, and outraged Justice,
with a hundred glittering swords, would seem all impatient to devour
him.
It is no mere imagination that, in a moment, the mind may be so
quickened as to embrace the actions of a long period; and that with
equal suddenness the moral aspect of them may be completely changed.
There are moments when the powers of the mind as well as those of the
body are so stimulated as to become capable of exertions undreamt
of before. The dumb prince, in ancient history, who all his life
had never spoken a word, but found the power of speech when he saw
a sword raised to cut down his father, showed how danger could
stimulate the organs of the body. The sudden change in David's
feeling now, like the sudden change in Saul's on the way to Damascus,
showed what electric rapidity may be communicated to the operations
of the soul. It showed too what unseen and irresistible agencies of
conviction and condemnation the great Judge can bring into play when
it is His will to do so. As the steam hammer may be so adjusted as
either to break a nutshell without injuring the kernel, or crush a
block of quartz to powder, so the Spirit of God can range, in His
effects on the conscience, between the mildest feeling of uneasiness
and the bitterest agony of remorse. "When He is come," said our
blessed Lord, "He shall reprove the world of sin." How helpless men
are under His operation! How utterly was David prostrated! How were
the multitudes brought down on the day of Pentecost! Is there any
petition we more need to press than that the Spirit be poured out to
convince of sin, whether as it regards ourselves or the world? Is it
not true that the great want of the Church the want of is a sense of
sin, so that confession and humiliation are become rare, and our very
theology is emasculated, because, where there is little sense of sin,
there can be little appreciation of redemption? And is not a sense of
sin that which would bring a careless world to itself, and make it
deal earnestly with God's gracious offers? How striking is the effect
ascribed by the prophet Zechariah to that pouring of the spirit of
grace and supplication upon the house of David and the inhabitants of
Jerusalem, when "they shall look on Him whom they have pierced, and
shall mourn for Him as one mourneth for an only son, and shall be in
bitterness for Him as one that is in bitterness for his firstborn."
Would that our whole hearts went out in those invocations of the
Spirit which we often sing, but alas! so very tamely--
"Come, Holy Spirit, come,
Let Thy bright beams arise;
Dispel the darkness from our minds,
And open all our eyes.
"Convince us of our sin,
Lead us to Jesus' blood,
And kindle in our breast the flame
Of never-dying love."
We cannot pass from this aspect of David's case without marking the
terrible power of self-deception. Nothing blinds men so much to the
real character of a sin as the fact that it is their own. Let it
be presented to them in the light of another man's sin, and they
are shocked. It is easy for one's self-love to weave a veil of fair
embroidery, and cast it over those deeds about which one is somewhat
uncomfortable. It is easy to devise for ourselves this excuse and
that, and lay stress on one excuse and another that may lessen the
appearance of criminality. But nothing is more to be deprecated,
nothing more to be deplored, than success in that very process.
Happy for you if a Nathan is sent to you in time to tear to rags
your elaborate embroidery, and lay bare the essential vileness of
your deed! Happy for you if your conscience is made to assert its
authority, and cry to you, with its awful voice, "Thou art the man!"
For if you live and die in your fool's paradise, excusing every sin,
and saying peace, peace, when there is no peace, there is nothing
for you but the rude awakening of the day of judgment, when the hail
shall sweep away the refuge of lies!
After Nathan had exposed the sin of David he proceeded to declare
his sentence. It was not a sentence of death, in the ordinary sense
of the term, but it was a sentence of death in a sense even more
difficult to bear. It consisted of three things--first, the sword
should never depart from his house; second, out of his own house
evil should be raised against him, and a dishonoured harem should
show the nature and extent of the humiliation that would come upon
him; and thirdly, a public exposure should thus be made of his sin,
so that he would stand in the pillory of Divine rebuke, and in the
shame which it entailed, before all Israel, and before the sun. When
David confessed his sin, Nathan told him that the Lord had graciously
forgiven it, but at the same time a special chastisement was to mark
how concerned God was for the fact that by his sin he had caused the
enemy to blaspheme--the child born of Bathsheba was to die.
Reserving this last part of the sentence and David's bearing in
connection with it for future consideration, let us give attention
to the first portion of his retribution. "The sword shall never
depart from thy house." Here we find a great principle in the moral
government of God,--correspondence between an offence and its
retribution. Of this many instances occur in the Old Testament.
Jacob deceived his father; he was deceived by his own sons. Lot made
a worldly choice; in the world's ruin he was overwhelmed. So David
having slain Uriah with the sword, the sword was never to depart
from him. He had robbed Uriah of his wife; his neighbours would in
like manner rob and dishonour him. He had disturbed the purity of
the family relation; his own house was to become a den of pollution.
He had mingled deceit and treachery with his actions; deceit and
treachery would be practised towards him. What a sad and ominous
prospect! Men naturally look for peace in old age; the evening of
life is expected to be calm. But for him there was to be no calm; and
his trial was to fall on the tenderest part of his nature. He had a
strong affection for his children; in that very feeling he was to be
wounded, and that, too, all his life long. Oh let not any suppose
that, because God's children are saved by His mercy from eternal
punishment, it is a light thing for them to despise the commandments
of the Lord! "Thine own wickedness shall correct thee, and thy
backslidings shall reprove thee; know therefore and see that it is an
evil thing and bitter that thou hast forsaken the Lord thy God, and
that thy fear is not in Me, saith the Lord of hosts."
Pre-eminent in its bitterness was that part of David's retribution
which made his own house the source from which his bitterest trials
and humiliations should arise. For the most part, it is in extreme
cases only that parents have to encounter this trial. It is only in
the wickedest households, and in households for the most part where
the passions are roused to madness by drink, that the hand of the
child is raised against his father to wound and dishonour him. It was
a terrible humiliation to the king of Israel to have to bear this
doom, and especially to that king of Israel who in many ways bore
so close a resemblance to the promised Seed, who was indeed to be
the progenitor of that Seed, so that when Messiah came He should be
called "the Son of David." Alas! the glory of this distinction was to
be sadly tarnished. "Son of David" was to be a very equivocal title,
according to the character of the individual who should bear it. In
one case it would denote the very climax of honour; in another, the
depth of humiliation. Yes, that household of David's would reek with
foul lusts and unnatural crimes. From the bosom of that home where,
under other circumstances, it would have been so natural to look
for model children, pure, affectionate, and dutiful, there would
come forth monsters of lust and monsters of ambition, whose deeds of
infamy would hardly find a parallel in the annals of the nation!
In the breasts of some of these royal children the devil would find
a seat where he might plan and execute the most unnatural crimes.
And that city of Jerusalem, which he had rescued from the Jebusites,
consecrated as God's dwelling-place, and built and adorned with the
spoils which the king had taken in many a well-fought field, would
turn against him in his old age, and force him to fly wherever a
refuge could be found as homeless, and nearly as destitute, as in the
days of his youth when he fled from Saul!
And lastly, his retribution was to be public. He had done his part
secretly, but God would do His part openly. There was not a man or
woman in all Israel but would see these judgments coming on a king
who had outraged his royal position and his royal prerogatives. How
could he ever go in and out happily among them again? How could he
be sure, when he met any of them, that they were not thinking of his
crime, and condemning him in their hearts? How could he meet the hardly
suppressed scowl of every Hittite, that would recall his treatment of
their faithful kinsman? What a burden would he carry ever after, he
that used to wear such a frank and honest and kindly look, that was so
affable to all that sought his counsel, and so tender-hearted to all
that were in trouble! And what outlet could he find out of all this
misery? There was but one he could think of. If only God would forgive
him; if He, whose mercy was in the heavens, would but receive him again
of His infinite condescension into His fellowship, and vouchsafe to him
that grace which was not the fruit of man's deserving, but, as its very
name implied, of God's unbounded goodness, then might his soul return
again to its quiet rest, though life could never be to him what it was
before. And this, as we shall presently see, is what he set himself
very earnestly to seek, and what of God's mercy he was permitted to
find. O sinner, if thou hast strayed like a lost sheep, and plunged
into the very depths of sin, know that all is not lost with thee! There
is one way yet open to peace, if not to joy. Amid the ten thousand
times ten thousand voices that condemn thee, there is one voice of love
that comes from heaven and says, "Return unto Me, and I will return
unto you, saith the Lord."