Feet of Clay

Our family liked watching The Cosby Show together. And I remember several childhood Christmases when one of us received a new Rolf Harris album and it was immediately being played on the stereo. I was never that enamoured of Tiger Woods, but many millions were.

The complex and valued relationship we have with “distant heroes” echoes across history, but far more so since the advent of radio and its descendants. We hear their voices and then we think we know them – how they feel, what they believe – even though, in many cases, they are subtly playing a great role.

So when they fail us, when they cause accidental, or deliberate harm, we are more than disappointed. We doubt our feelings, we feel something akin to betrayal, especially if the one we have admired has been shielded by accomplices.

What is confronting about the story of David, Bathsheba, Uriah and Nathan is that David is neither shielded from our scrutiny, nor protected from our opinion. David has been presented as our hope, plucked from obscurity to a pinnacle of triumph over evil Goliath and failed Saul. We expect – and demand – great things.

We live in the hope of the Jesus story, knowing that Jesus inherits the crown of his ancestor David, seemingly the hallmark of monarchy itself.

This is least a story of adultery, but adultery plays its part. The original fault in this story is often falsely laid at Bathsheba’s feet, as if her beauty is equivalent to the serpent’s invitation. This is a story, as so many are, about the misuse and abuse of power by those who wield it. Far more is told about David’s betrayal of Uriah’s integrity than about Bathsheba and the king, but as we know, sex sells, so we focus on that.

Even in the midst of this egregious cluster of sins, there is already the first sign of hope. The model king is a failed man and yet, the Old Testament records every detail; the confronting honesty of the story already hints at the possibility of restoration.

The prophet Nathan does not walk away from the king, because God does not. Instead, David is called to account and acknowledges his failure, responding in honesty and prayer. Bathsheba’s child dies, which appals us, but perhaps less than the way David has injured the role to which God has called him.

Does David discover God’s forgiveness? This story is for us, with our fragile heroes; even this failed king can discover forgiveness, but acknowledgement and repentance play their vital roles. We can accept brokenness, even in those we admire, if humility accompanies the lives they lead. And thus, they become even more admirable.