Even This

2 Samuel 11:1-5

December 24, 2023 (a.m.) • Mount Pleasant UMC

Four women. Each unique, each different, each a daughter of their time, each a daughter of promise because they are forever linked in a chain that leads to the savior of the world, and to a stable in Bethlehem. But I’m getting ahead of myself; we’ll get to the stable tonight. This morning, as we wrap up the Advent season, we’re still working through the genealogy of Jesus, and specifically looking at these four women who shouldn’t be listed there but are. Tamar, who tricked her father-in-law into sleeping with her. Rahab, the prostitute who protected the spies in Jericho. Ruth, the outsider who uncovered a man’s feet and became the grandmother of King David. And speaking of King David, his story brings us to our fourth daughter of promise, a woman who does not appear in the genealogy by name, but rather by description. She is the mother of King Solomon, or, as Matthew puts it, she “had been Uriah’s wife” (Matthew 1:6).

Her name is Bathsheba, and she took what has become the most famous bath in history. And just so you know, that’s not a clever play on words in the text; the whole “bath” connection only works in English, not in the original language. Bathsheba lived in Jerusalem, in a house near the palace that was occupied by King David. She probably had such a prominent living space because her husband, Uriah, was one of David’s elite soldiers. Both Uriah and his father are listed at the end of 2 Samuel (23:34, 39) as part of a group called “The Thirty,” the most skilled soldiers among David’s army. And Uriah’s grandfather was one of David’s most trusted advisors (16:23). So while Uriah is referred to in the text as “Uriah the Hittite,” that only means he had ancestry that went back to the Hittite kingdom. At some point along the way, his family had become Israelite. He was a Hebrew soldier, deeply committed to defending the land and the king (cf. Vannoy, “1-2 Samuel,” Cornerstone Biblical Commentary, Vol. 4a, pg. 332; DeMuth, The Most Misunderstood Women of the Bible, pg. 103). Which only makes what happens next all the more tragic and sad.

As I said, Bathsheba takes the most famous bath in history, on her roof. The narrator of this beautifully told story is careful to note the reason for her bath: “She was purifying herself from her monthly uncleanness” (11:4). She is doing what the law of Moses required of her once a month, so what he has on her roof is not just a normal bathtub. It is a mikveh, a cleansing pool that you still find ruins of all over Israel. It would have been on the roof because, according to the law, it had to fill naturally with water, and you had to immerse yourself completely in that water. Another reason for it to be on the rooftop is so that, when you went to the mikveh, you had privacy and cooler temperatures than inside the house (cf. Goldingay, 1 & 2 Samuel for Everyone, pg. 141). Bathsheba is trying to live out the requirements of her faith; she is not, as is sometimes said, up on that rooftop to tempt anyone (cf. DeMuth 103).

It is spring, we’re told, the “time when kings go off to war” (11:1). Well, most of the kings. David does not, and you would think as this mighty warrior that he is known as, if he’s at home in the palace, he would be strategizing, planning, making sure his army has what it needs to win this war against the Ammonites (a country in modern-day Jordan). But what is he doing? He’s taking a nap. A nap. And in the evening, when he gets up from his nap, he’s walking along the roof of the palace and, let’s just say it, spying on people. The palace roof would be higher than any home nearby, so David would be able to see the rooftops of all the surrounding homes (cf. Goldingay 141). And on this particular evening, his eye rests on a “woman of unusual beauty” (Vannoy 332), cleansing herself on her rooftop. And he watches her long enough that he begins to devise a plan. When he asks someone who she is, he is told she is the wife of one of his elite warriors. That should be enough to interfere with his plan. But it is not. David has a rather chilling plan, especially the way he carries it out. Did you notice the verbs in this story? They are all about David. And they are all mostly forceful on his part. David “saw, sent, inquired, sent, got, slept with” (cf. Goldingay 141). Do you notice Bathsheba has no say in any of this? In fact, there is no indication that David spoke with her or connected with her in any way except in the bedroom. And the only time Bathsheba talks in this whole story is when she sends word to David: “I am pregnant” (11:5).

David is the king, after all. You don’t say no to the king. Bathsheba had no rights in this culture, no say and no way to escape the literal clutches of the king. Let’s be careful not to apply a modern mindset to this story; Bathsheba is basically a captive to the king. And what David does is reprehensible. In fact, as one author said, “Every avenue sin provided, he gladly walked into” (DeMuth 104). In fact, I want you to notice how the narrator describes what happened. The text says, “He slept with her.” It does not say, “They slept with each other.” The word that is used there is only used in the Hebrew Bible to describe rape. It has an underlying meaning of “to steal.” What happens here is horrific; the shepherd of Israel has become a predator, an abuser, someone who steals what he wants, and according to the law of Moses, David deserves to die for what he has done (DeMuth 104). And yes, by telling us that she is the “wife of Uriah” in the genealogy, Matthew means to evoke this whole awful story. He is once again pointing out that the family line of the Messiah was far from perfect.

And not just imperfect. The story of Bathsheba is a story of trauma upon trauma. The most obvious example is, of course, what David has done to her. He took her, took advantage of her, then cast her away until his sin was in danger of being made public. When Bathsheba tells him she is pregnant, David must once again spring into action, take control he thinks, and not just spin this story as modern politicians would do, but actually cover it up. And that brings another layer of trauma for Bathsheba. If you read the whole story this past week in the suggested Scripture readings, you know what happens. David first asks Uriah to come home from the battle. He believes if he can get Uriah to go home and sleep with his wife, everyone (including Uriah) will think that the child is his. Did you notice that the only person in this story to disobey the king’s direction is Uriah (DeMuth 105)? Twice he refuses to do what David wants him to do, and it costs him his life. He is sent back to the battle, put on the front lines, and here is how the author describes it: “Some of the men in David’s army fell; moreover, Uriah the Hittite died” (11:17). Apparently, for David, it was worth however many other lives might be claimed to cover up his sin, to kill Bathsheba’s husband. Trauma upon trauma. Bathsheba mourns her husband, and then she is brought back to the palace and made David’s wife. And again, notice that she is given no choice in the matter. This is all about David. Trauma upon trauma upon trauma (cf. Goldingay 142).

Now, this sermon is not about David, but I want you to notice a few things about him because his story factors into the way we understand Bathsheba. David is remembered as the greatest king Israel ever had. He took a bunch of divided tribes and brought them together as one nation under a central government. He established Jerusalem as the nation’s capital and as the holy ground it still is today. He is remembered as a “man after God’s own heart” (1 Samuel 13:14), and yet. And yet, there was something broken in David, something that then resulted in creating brokenness all around him. The Bible never says David loved anyone (cf. Goldingay 141), and certainly not Bathsheba. That’s evident in this story of sin, corruption, adultery and murder. He treats her as property; he dehumanizes her. “There is no hint of caring, of affection, of love—only lust. David does not call her by name, does not even speak to her” (Brueggemann qtd. in Vannoy 332). At the end of our passage this morning, she is called “the woman” (11:5). And, again, this sermon isn’t about David but it doesn’t take much work to trace the line of brokenness through David’s family. As they say, the apples don’t fall far from the tree, and in chapter 13, David’s son Amnon rapes his half-sister Tamar (not the Tamar we talked about a couple of weeks ago), and when David doesn’t do anything about it, another son stages a rebellion and for a brief time takes the kingdom away from David. This is the very picture of generational sin, and it follows David the rest of his life. David’s sinful flaw is that he began to believe that, as king, he could do whatever he wanted with whomever he wanted. Bathsheba is just a pawn, a toy for Israel’s so-called “greatest king.” These are, as one study Bible puts it, “the chain of sin’s consequences.”

“But the thing David had done displeased the Lord” (11:27). That’s how chapter 11 ends. If you’ve been wondering where God is in this whole story, or why we’re telling this story on the morning of Christmas Eve, get ready, because the whole plot, the whole act, the whole thing is about to break wide open with the grace and mercy of God. “But the thing David had done displeased the Lord” (11:27). So much brokenness results from the gift of free will God has given us that it causes some folks to believe he never should have given that gift. But it’s also true God is not content to let us just get away with sin. David, the man after God’s own heart, apparently isn’t listening to God right now, so God sends another man, a prophet-preacher named Nathan, and chapter 12 tells about that encounter. There’s a story about a single lamb being taken from a poor man’s flock and killed by a rich man, and we’re told “David burned with anger” (12:5) over this hypothetical event. He says the man who did this should be put to death. Ironic, isn’t it, since that’s exactly the penalty the Law described for what David has done. So Nathan steps in and says, “You are the man!” (12:7). And David knows he has been caught. All of his effort to avoid notice couldn’t escape the gaze of God. David admits, “I have sinned against the Lord” (12:13), and while that is absolutely true, I’m not sure he ever deals with the way he also sinned against Bathsheba. The child conceived in sin does not survive, and David’s response is to marry and “comfort” Bathsheba, add her to his collection of wives and concubines. The result of his “comfort” is a child who will become King Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived. And still, there is no word from Bathsheba. It’s almost as if she remains a background player in her own story.

But the reason I’m telling this story today is, of course, because Bathsheba is named as an ancestor of Jesus. She wouldn’t have to be; it would have been easy enough for Matthew to simply put Jesus in the family line of King David, but there she is, the last of the four women named. And I believe the reason her story and her name is preserved in this way is to remind us that no story is ever beyond redemption. There is nothing you have been through that (one) God isn’t aware of and (two) God isn’t working to bring good, even joy, out of. Even this. Even this. Even what you have been through or maybe going through right now. Bathsheba’s story ultimately results in a savior, a king in the line of David who does not dismiss anyone or dehumanize any single person. Listen to how Isaiah describes him centuries before he arrives: “Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen one in whom I delight; I will put my Spirit on him, and he will bring justice to the nations. He will not shout or cry out, or raise his voice in the streets.” And here’s the part I really want you to hear: “A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out. In faithfulness he will bring forth justice; he will not falter or be discouraged till he establishes justice on earth” (Isaiah 42:1-4a). From this sin, from this misbegotten union will come the one who came to redeem everyone and everything. God can and will redeem anything and bring joy from even this.

But what about what you have been through? Sure, it’s great that God eventually brought joy out of Bathsheba’s story, but what about my story? What about the story of my family member who was abused and mistreated? What about all the spiritual, physical, and mental abuse that happens every day in our world? What about the places in our world where such a thing is just part of every day that ends in “y”? Is there anything Bathsheba’s story has to say to us, right here in these pews? Yes, I believe so, and the first thing is this: decisions matter. The decisions you make affect so much more than you or even just you and your significant other or spouse. The decisions you make last longer than just for this moment or this day. David’s decisions impacted so many more than just him and Bathsheba, and the effects lasted so much longer than the momentary pleasure he received from taking advantage of his power and position over her. My college roommate was a David. He lived what we eventually learned was a secret life. While he was a leader in his church and an outspoken Christian, he was also having multiple affairs on the side and treating his wife like trash. When some of his secrets were on the verge of being revealed, he decided that the only way out was to take his own life. In a moment, he was gone and was relieved of his responsibility. There would be no accountability. But, friends, that’s been ten years ago and the ripple effects are still being felt by his wife and his sons. Decisions matter. Nothing you decide to do only affects you, despite what the so-called common wisdom says. Stop. Pray. Ask God for wisdom when you are on a rooftop and hear a temptation calling your name. James (1:5) says if you ask, God will give you wisdom generously. Decisions matter.

Second: don’t quit. I don’t know what Bathsheba did after Solomon was born, but it sure doesn’t seem like she and David ever developed much of a relationship or had much of a marriage. At the end of David’s life, she is scheming against him to make sure it’s her son who gets on the throne (cf. 1 Kings 1:15-21). Bathsheba’s trauma seems to have turned her into someone with little hope, but that doesn’t have to be you or the person you care about who lived through some sort of trauma. My roommate’s wife started a ministry for women who had been through similar experiences, sharing her story and seeking to encourage those like her to not quit. There are countless stories like hers. MADD or Mothers Against Drunk Driving was started because of a mom who lost her 13-year-old son to a drunk driver. Think, too, about the woman who was sexually assaulted that started her own nonprofit, or the woman whose spouse cheated on her and ended up going through a very difficult time, a tough divorce, but in the long run found healthier ways of dealing with and living into relationships. These things happen because those who have experienced trauma simply don’t quit. 

So ask for wisdom because decisions matter. Don’t quit. And be there for someone else. I want you to think for a moment how God felt when this happened, whether we’re talking about Bathsheba or your own trauma. To imagine that, maybe it’s helpful to think about how it feels when someone you care about trusts you enough to share their trauma with you. Those are heavy feelings, and at least I know I want to do something, to go back and change things for them. I don’t want them to have to deal with what they have been through. But you can’t. You can’t change the past. You can’t punish the offender. But you can be a listening ear. You can be a support just by being present in their lives and showing them love. When someone has faced a heavy trauma, the natural feelings are that they are broken, that they unloveable, that no one will ever want them again. I think it’s very likely Bathsheba felt that way when David sent her away after what was supposed to be their one-night fling. She needed someone who would come alongside and show her grace, respect and tell her she was valued. Those things go a long, long way toward healing the hurt that no one else sees. Those things go an incredibly long way toward restoring the joy that God intends for all of us. This baby in the manger that we are going to celebrate tonight came so that all might know that they are loved and that they have infinite worth to the creator of the universe. Sometimes that message, though, needs to come through you and me, by just sitting with and caring for a person who is hurting. That’s what Jesus did, each and every time. Be there for someone, and joy can come from even this.

Last week, a friend of mine and I were talking about some of the things in this story, in this sermon. I have to be honest: I’ve preached Bathsheba’s story before and it has never affected me as deeply as it has this time. And I was telling my friend this, who then gave me part of a letter written years before to “future me.” It is written out of the kind of trauma we’ve been talking about, but it is a joyful and hope-filled letter. I share this small portion of it with permission:

You made it. You survived a critical moment in your life that you didn’t understand why it was happening. Why you? It was impossible to see past today and see any good in the future. You asked yourself what good could come from this?

You did—“today you” came from this. You were good before and you are good now. There was good to be made from this. That moment was only a small part of your story even though it felt like the whole dang book.

Even the person in the past who wrote that knew that joy could come from even this. I mean, that’s what Jesus does best: bring hope from hopelessness, life out of death, joy out of despair. And he does it in even this. Let’s pray.