He couldn’t sleep. The room wasn’t dark enough; his mind wasn’t quiet enough. The lengthening light of the spring evening slipped around the heavy drapes and stretched across his coverlet, reminding him of the season and where his troops were currently quartered. Unlike him, they weren’t enjoying the luxury of a good bed, a lavish meal, a warm bath. No. They were set up in a battle encampment, sleeping in shifts on unforgiving ground, living on unappetizing food, relentlessly plotting, planning, and strategizing how best to exterminate their enemy. He should be with them.
Often he had been. From the moment he’d chosen those 5 stones and walked out to face a growling, mocking Goliath, David had frequently been on the battlefield. He was good at it. Excellent, really. So great was his skill and cunning that King Saul appointed him as head of the army. He thrived in that position, leading them to victory over and over again. So often, in fact, the people greeted him in the streets with chants and songs of the tens of thousands he had slain. (I Samuel 17:23-27, 18:5-7)
Eventually, David became king himself. His battle acumen did not lessen. He built a formidable army, made a name for Israel. Everyone knew their reputation. They knew God was on Israel’s side. Everyone who had ever met David on the training field, the battlefield, or the strategy board knew that being a warrior was ingrained by God into his very being. It was who he was, an integral part of his identity. So why was the warrior king fighting insomnia in a palace while his men fought a battle in a field? (II Samuel 2-10)
Perhaps that very question plagued David as well. Maybe he couldn’t quite find the answer. Maybe the evasiveness of the answer brought with it his current bout of insomnia. Perhaps it was the examination of those possible motives that had David climbing out from under his embroidered coverlet, shoving his feet in slippers, tossing a robe around his shoulders, and walking the roof in the dimming light of evening. It probably wasn’t the first time he walked the roof to gain perspective.
The trek was habitual. The roof was his thinking ground, his solitude. It was where he went when there were more questions than answers, more war than peace, more fear than faith. Instead of calling for a cup of warm milk, a melodious harpist, a scribe to read the annals of history, David walked the roof. Surveyed the kingdom. Looked to the hills, reminding himself from where his help would come. Raised his face to the wind, remembering God’s sovereignty and power.
Regardless of what he normally did, David should have called for a hot beverage, a musician, and a scribe that night. When he chose to walk the roof, he should have kept his eyes trained on the hills. Bracing himself, he should have tipped his face into the wind and focused on his God. He should never have looked out over the kingdom. Why? Because the evil one was walking the kingdom, looking for a way to trip up the warrior king God had chosen to lead His people. And blindly, David, that fearless leader, cunning strategist, unbeatable soldier, walked straight into a trap.
Gaze drifting from rooftop to rooftop, mind boggled with answer-less questions, David begins his usual stroll. He’s not looking for anything in particular. He’s not focused on anything specific. Until he is. His mind empties as his eyes rest on the picture before him. A bathing woman. Completely beautiful. Wholly inappropriate. He should look away. Walk away. Run. Scrub his mind. Erase the memory. Forget it ever happened. He doesn’t.
The evil one isn’t about to let it go. Finding a chink in the armor of God’s warrior is the proverbial icing on his dilapidated cake. Over and over again he flashes that picture before David’s mind. Desire develops. David weakens. He sets out to determine the bathing beauty’s identity, quietly inquiring among his staff to know her name and to whom she belongs.
It was not ideal news. The beauty relentlessly invading his thoughts and dreams is Bathsheba. Uriah’s wife. Married. Committed. Not free. He should walk away. Let it go. Forget what he’d seen. Forget what he wanted. Forget he was a king whose every wish was a command. He didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t scrape together enough self-control. Ignoring the jab of conscience, he sent messengers to bring Bathsheba to him.
Later, watching Bathsheba make her way from his palace, surely David promised his aggravated conscience it would never happen again. It was a one-and-done sin. No one would ever know. Uriah would come home from battle and pick up right where he left off. His house. His wife. His life.
Except he doesn’t. The repercussions of sin infiltrate David’s daydream of anonymity. In desperation, he attempts a series of coverups. When all the innocuous methods fail, David turns deadly. With the power of his pen, he sends Uriah back to battle carrying his own death warrant. Then arrogantly marries Uriah’s wife. Takes over Uriah’s life. (II Samuel 11)
By the time I read the final verse of this account, I’m sick to my stomach. Incredulous that the same man who wrote the words of the Psalms fell so far so fast. Especially Psalm 101. A promise to walk in integrity–Within. His. House?! A vow to keep his vision focused on purity?! A staunch refusal of evil, slander, arrogance, and deceit?! An absolute statement of destruction for all those who are wicked and engage in iniquity! How can these be the words of the same David who engaged in visual impurity, arrogant misuse of his authority, and deceitful cunning to cover his sin? (Psalm 101)
How can they be our words? How can we walk among the ranks of the righteous singing words of love and peace and grace, but walk the trenches of the world spewing fear and pride and hate? How can we profess to know Jesus Christ yet not prove it with our actions? How can we call ourselves followers of Jesus when our following is limited to public appearances? How do our private actions affect our public witness? What do we do in secret that we will do anything to keep covered? (Titus 1:15-16; James 2:17,26)
That was David’s problem, you know. There was sin in his house. Invited sin. Harbored sin. Covered sin. And wherever sin is, Jesus isn’t. The two do not coexist. They cannot. They will not. They are diametrically opposed. Sin brings death. Jesus brings life. You cannot serve them both, and whichever one inhabits your heart will inhabit your thoughts and words and deeds. You will find your sin multiplying to cover the previous sin until your soul is covered in an avalanche of sins you can no longer keep covered. Sin is dangerous. It multiplies. And it brings death. (Ezekiel 18:20; John 10:10, 14:6; Matthew 6:24; Luke 6:45; Proverbs 28:13)
Soul death. Death no one can see. Death about which no one knows. Hidden erosion of the soul. Death that stagnates your spirit, stalemates your witness, and stunts your growth. The death from which you can only feign recovery unless you repent before Almighty God. So search your soul. Open every closet door. Knock down every cobweb. Rid yourself of any sin, every sin. Dedicate yourself to truly living for Jesus no matter where you are, who is around, or what anyone else is doing. Even when you are alone and there seems to be no accountability, live for Jesus then, too. It’s dangerous not to. Practice following Jesus in private so it will be your genuine response in public. Remembering this, if you choose to live for Jesus only in some places rather than in any place, you will eventually stop following Him in every place. Home. Work. School. Church. In any place you find yourself, may your life reflect the One you have chosen to serve in every place. (Ephesians 5:1; Joshua 1:8; Lamentations 3:40; Psalm 119:133; Deuteronomy 13:4)
Amen