When I was a kid, my parents would host several Christmas parties each year — one for each of the adult Sunday school classes from our church. In preparation for each party, my mother would employ me in vacuuming the living room, mixing the punch, lighting the candles, and such.
One task that invariably came before the first party of each Christmas season involved the silver tea set. It was a lovely set, but we seldom used it apart from the annual Christmas parties. Consequently, when December rolled around, the set looked dark and tarnished, and so it became my job to polish the silver set before the first party each year.
We all have things like that. Things that we don’t use very often. Things that we bring out only for special occasions, and when we bring them out, they need to be dusted off, cleaned out, and polished up.
The angel that came with Christmas news for Mary said that God was going to give her son “the throne of his ancestor David.” Talk about something that hadn’t been used for a while! The Jews had been living under Roman occupation for the past sixty years. A century prior to that, they were the ping-pong ball between competing foreign interests that followed in the wake of Alexander the Great. And, for the centuries before Alexander, Jerusalem had been assaulted by the Assyrians, demolished by the Babylonians, and supported by the largesse of the Persians.
Just one generation after David sat on his throne, his grandson alienated and lost ten of Israel’s twelve tribes. Subsequent heirs to his throne included an assortment of weak and wicked men. Some stripped the gold from the palace and temple to pay off regional bullies. Some introduced idolatry and pagan practices into Jerusalem. Some who weren’t so overtly bad still did not show the strength to oppose and undo what evil predecessors had done.
It had been a long time since David’s throne had been used. An even longer time since it had been used well. Now, at Christmas, it was time to get it out and dust it off for Mary’s son.
2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16
Our scene opens with a remarkable bit of initiative by King David. He “said to the prophet Nathan....” As we read the biblical accounts of prophets and kings, it is usually the prophets who go knocking on the kings’ doors. Typically the Lord has some message for the king and his nation, and the prophet is employed to communicate that message. It is far less common, however, that we see a king knocking on the prophet’s door to find out what the Lord has to say. Still more rare is David’s move here: the king initiates the conversation, not because of what he wants from the Lord, but because of what he wants to do for the Lord.
David’s sensitivity is exemplary. He saw for himself precisely the kind of thing that we usually need someone else to point out to us. Indeed, David saw for himself essentially the same thing that the prophet Haggai was required to point out to the Jews of post-exilic Jerusalem 500 years later (see below).
Nathan’s reflexive response is a positive one. He no doubt sensed the fundamental goodness of David’s plan, and he recognized that the Lord was with David. But Nathan’s seal of approval proved premature, for “that same night the word of the Lord came to Nathan.”
David is to be commended for not running ahead with his plan before consulting the prophet of the Lord. That prophet, however, may be questioned for giving the green light to David’s plan without himself consulting the Lord. In any case, the Lord did not permit the project to get very far down the road at all before he corrected it.
“Are you the one to build me a house to live in?” the Lord asked David. God had not asked David — or any of his predecessors among Israel’s leadership since the days when Moses first constructed the tabernacle according to God’s design — to build him “a house of cedar.” So David’s proposal did not match God’s purpose. Instead, however, God graciously turned the tables and revealed that his purpose was to build a house for David.
The Hebrew word (bayith) for “house” is, not surprisingly, a very common one in the Old Testament, and it occurs seven times in just the verses of our passage. But the ordinary word takes on a new meaning in the message that God gives to David through Nathan. While David intended to build for God a structure, God intended to establish for David a dynasty.
God also intended to establish a reputation for David: “I will make for you a great name, like the name of the great ones of the earth.” It’s hard to dispute that that promise and purpose of God has been fulfilled. In later Old Testament prophecy, David’s name, reign, and throne became the emblem for Israel’s past and future glory, a symbol for God’s messianic age. That in itself is remarkable, since Solomon’s reign was arguably more notable, at least in human terms. And yet, when we arrive at the New Testament, “son of David” is the loaded term the expectant crowds use when welcoming Jesus into Jerusalem.
Beyond the confines of ancient Israel, meanwhile, David’s name and reputation continue to be great 3,000 years after the youngest son of Jesse tended to sheep on the hillsides near Bethlehem. It is a symbol of David — not of Solomon or Moses, not of Joshua or Judas Maccabeus — that flies on the flag of the modern state of Israel. And David has been known for generations and around the globe as the author of one of the most famous and beloved poems in the world (Psalm 23).
Finally, the twice-mentioned “rest” from all of David’s enemies is attributed to the Lord. The statement reflects a faith perspective that is quite foreign to the world in which we live. If a political and military leader in our day came to a point where he was free from the harassment of enemies, how would we score that? We might think in terms of his strategy, his military might, his political acumen. We might consider the effectiveness of his advisors, his assistants, his generals. We might look at the national and international landscape to see what favorable circumstances permitted him to achieve such a position of security, but we would not naturally think to attribute the matter to God.
David himself, however, would be inclined to give the credit to God. After all, he knew, even as a boy facing his first enemy that “the battle is the Lord’s and he will give you into our hand” (1 Samuel 17:47).
Romans 16:25-27
Our New Testament lesson may be viewed as either a very short passage or as a very long sentence. It qualifies as both. The length and convolution of the sentence can be off-putting for many readers, and so a part of our task this week may be simply to walk our people through some characteristically Pauline complexity.
We gather from 16:22 that Paul probably dictated this letter to the Romans. Tertius briefly peeks up from his otherwise anonymous desk to greet the Christians in Rome. It may be, then, that the failure to break Paul’s words into more manageable sentences is Tertius’. Or, it may be that Paul, like many of us when leaving messages on answering machines and voice mails, spoke rapidly without apparent punctuation. Personally, however, I am most inclined to attribute this kind of sentence to a sort of childlike enthusiasm on the apostle’s part.
We know how an excited child can babble on breathlessly with their enthusiasm flowing faster than their words can accommodate. That is how this closing passage from Romans reads to me. Not all of Paul’s writing is like this, after all. Not every sentence of his is three verses and (in the Greek) 53 words long. I credit this verbosity to Paul’s excitement. I see here a crescendo of praise, and it bubbles forth faster than either Paul or Tertius can punctuate.
The sentence alludes to so many, many different subjects. Each one deserves consideration. “My gospel” and “the proclamation of Jesus Christ” is worthy of elaboration. “The revelation” could be exposited, and “the mystery that was kept secret for long ages” should be. We might say more about that mystery being “now disclosed,” about “the prophetic writings,” and about the central issue for Paul of it being “made known to all the Gentiles.” Likewise, we might meditate for some time on the weighty subjects of “the command of the eternal God” and “the obedience of faith.”
In my years of writing essays as an English major, I was frequently challenged by a professor’s red pen, underlining some point in my paper with the comment: “Elaborate on this” or “Explain this more fully.” We want to say that to Paul here. He has raised so many profound subjects, but he limits each to a mere reference, and we wish that he would elaborate, that he would explain these things more fully. He has left that heady task, however, to those of us who exposit the word.
Paul’s reference to “my gospel” is neither unique nor common. He uses that same phrase in two other places: once earlier in this same letter to the Romans (2:16), and once in writing to Timothy (2 Timothy 2:8). He also uses the phrase “our gospel” on two occasions (2 Corinthians 4:3; 1 Thessalonians 1:5). While the phrase is not unique to this passage, it is unique to the apostle Paul. No one else in the New Testament makes that kind of personal, possessive reference to “my” or “our” gospel.
It’s interesting, meanwhile, that Paul should credit “the prophetic writings” with the mystery being “made known to all the Gentiles.” The Hebrew prophets of the Old Testament, after all, would have no natural appeal, familiarity, or credibility outside of Judaism — certainly not, we would think, in the Gentile world outside of Israel. If anything or anyone, we’d be inclined to point to Paul as the vessel through which the mystery was “made known to all the Gentiles.”
Paul’s phrase “the obedience of faith” is packed with beauty and meaning. It puts to rest the false contrast between Paul and James on the issue of faith and works. Paul doesn’t use this exact phrase anywhere outside of this letter, but he uses the phrase “to bring about the obedience of faith” essentially to bookend what he writes to the Romans (1:5; 16:26).
Meanwhile, as we consider the variety of significant topics that Paul mentions without elaboration, there may be a method to his madness. He has assembled such a constellation of important truths, and then he has subordinated them all to a doxology. The sentence seems to have so many subjects, yet from beginning to end God is the real subject of the sentence — all the others only serve to say something about him. While each jewel may deserve its own focused study and appreciation, they are all linked together by Paul and employed in the larger crown of praising God. For that is the real meaning and message of this long sentence: glory to God!
Luke 1:26-38
An understanding of this week’s Old Testament lesson from 2 Samuel will add a new layer of meaning to the gospel lesson for members of our congregations. That Joseph was “of the house of David” is not merely a quaint way of referring to genealogy or family tree. Rather, the image deliberately echoes the marvelous truth of the Old Testament lesson: namely that, while David intended to build a house for God, God instead promised to establish a house for David. Joseph was of that house, and his son would become the fulfillment of that millennium-old promise. And, of course, the angel’s explanation of God’s plan and purpose for that son of Joseph and Mary plainly echoes the explanation of God’s plan and purpose expressed to Nathan concerning David.
Mary’s initial response to the angel’s news, meanwhile, is so marvelously human. He has told her that she will have a son, but not just any son. No, this will be “the Son of the Most High,” suggesting his divinity. Her son will sit on the throne of David, who has been dead for a thousand years and whose throne must have seemed like a long-ago memory to a conquered and occupied people. He will rule over Judah, which at the time was just one province belonging to the vast Roman Empire; and his kingdom will never end, which must have sounded like pie in the sky given that the Jews’ latest experience of independence (the Maccabean revolt and Hasmonean dynasty) lasted little more than a century. It is a fabulous picture, full of broad strokes and big promises. Yet Mary’s concern rewinds all the way back to the most tiny and initial matter: “How can this be, since I am a virgin?”
How often do we doubt the big thing God might do because of some little fact about ourselves, about our condition, about our limitations? That was surely Moses’ objection at the burning bush (Exodus 3:11; 4:10), as well as Gideon’s reflex reaction to what God wanted to do through him (Judges 6:15).
The preposterousness of Mary’s question, of course, can be found in hypothetically changing her condition. Would the plan of God articulated by the angel suddenly become so much more plausible if Mary were not a virgin? Would it be so very much easier to believe that she would give birth to the Son of the Most High, who would resurrect David’s throne and reign over Judah forever, if only she had had sexual intercourse? Such myopia, however, is a common obstacle to faith.
The angel is marvelously patient with Mary — much more so, it would seem, than he was with Zechariah in a similar situation some months earlier (see Luke 1:19-20). Gabriel explains to Mary — to the extent that such a thing can be explained — how it will come to pass that a virgin will conceive. And, as a kind of reassurance to nurture her small and fragile faith, he tells her about her relative, Elizabeth. Since she found it hard to imagine a virgin giving birth, then perhaps she would be encouraged to know that God had enabled an old woman — barren her whole life, and now presumably well past her physical ability to have children — to have a son. Then comes the summary statement: “Nothing will be impossible for God.”
Our preaching emphasis at Christmas time may tend to be on God’s love and God’s gift. We may, however, neglect the theme of God’s power until the story turns to Jesus’ ministry and, later, his resurrection. But the angel’s parting words to Mary remind us that the Christmas story is also a display of his power — his potency to fulfill his purpose in any situation and against all odds. We recognize it when he calms storms, heals lepers, and rises from the dead. Likewise, we should also see it in the Christmas picture of a barren old woman and a young, virgin girl both giving birth to special baby boys.
Application
Our familiar Christmas carols speak often of Jesus’ kingship. In fact, it’s one of the great themes we sing each year: “Come and worship, come and worship, worship Christ the newborn king” ... “Come to Bethlehem and see Christ whose birth the angels sing; come, adore on bended knee, Christ the Lord, the newborn king” ... “Hark! the herald angels sing, ‘Glory to the newborn king’ ” ... “Noel, Noel, born is the king of Israel” ... “Joy to the world, the Lord is come! Let earth receive her king” ... “And the star rains its fire while the beautiful sing, for the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king” ... “Born a king on Bethlehem’s plain, gold I bring to crown him again, king forever, ceasing never, over us all to reign.”
The promise that God had made to David in our Old Testament lesson must have seemed like a cruel joke for so many intervening years. Then the promise was renewed to Mary in the gospel lesson.
In the hymn “Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus,” Charles Wesley encourages us to see that the King who came at Christmas has a broader and deeper reign in mind than just the old boundaries of David’s jurisdiction. “Born thy people to deliver, born a child and yet a King, born to reign in us forever, now thy gracious kingdom bring.” And so we are invited to bring out our own throne for him. Perhaps it has been a long time since he has had his rightful place in our lives. Perhaps never. And so we dust off the throne, and we welcome the king.
An Alternative Application
2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16. “What’s wrong with this picture?” We noted earlier that David showed uncommon sensitivity in the concern that he expressed to Nathan. His perception stands in stark contrast to the people of Haggai’s day, and probably, also, to many people of our day.
Just as the writer of Samuel reports that David was “settled” and enjoying peace, so the people of Haggai’s day had resettled and established themselves in the land. But the Lord sent Haggai to observe, “Is it a time for you yourselves to live in your paneled houses, while this house (the Lord’s house, the temple) lies in ruins?” (Haggai 1:4).
What Haggai’s contemporaries did not see for themselves, David did see. While the people of Haggai’s day needed a prophet to come and correct their manifestly misplaced priorities, David went to the prophet to lament the impropriety of his situation. He recognized that he was pleasantly ensconced in a house of cedar while the Ark of the Covenant, symbolizing God’s presence, was still in a tent. That, he sensed, was not right.
Children’s puzzle books sometimes include drawings that contain subtle irregularities — mittens on a summer day, a bird flying upside down, a fish in a tree, and the like. The challenge, then, is to discover “what’s wrong with this picture?”
David looked at the disparity between his accommodations and God’s, and he went to Nathan to say that something was wrong with the existing picture. We would do well to look carefully over the picture of our lives — with the sensitive heart of David — to discover what may be wrong with our picture.