As someone with a healthy recognition of my need for the mercy of God, as well as a less-than-healthy capacity for shame and religious anxiety (people, we really need to help each other learn the difference), Psalm 51 – King David's great prayer of contrition and repentance – has long been close to my heart.
If "gone in to" leaves you wondering, the second book of Samuel elaborates:
Nor does David's wrongdoing against Bathsheba end there. Discovering that she has fallen pregnant, and seeking to avert a scandal, the king brings her husband back from the battle field in the hope that he will likewise "go in" to her and so legitimise her "condition". Ironically, Uriah proves too faithful and noble a man to take advantage of the opportunity for rest and indulgence while his fellow soldiers are still risking their lives and roughing it out in the open. David rewards such high principle by having him sent to the front and abandoned by those same fellow soldiers at the crucial moment, assuring his convenient death. He even tasks Uriah himself to carry the fateful instructions in a letter to his commander. All goes to plan. David waits for Bathsheba to finish mourning her husband, then takes her as one of his several wives before she gives birth to their son. "But the thing David had done displeased the Lord." (2 Sam 11:27b) As if Bathsheba hasn't suffered enough, the child then dies as a consequence of God's judgement against David (2 Sam 12:14-20).
Back to the Psalm – "Against you, you only have I sinned..." David, would you care to clarify? I want to ask. Because if you meant to imply that the consequences of your actions for Bathsheba and her loved ones is irrelevant in the wider context of your personal relationship with God then frankly I'm at a loss. Although, come to think of it, no more of a loss than I often feel with my own faith culture. To hear us talk of sin and forgiveness anyone would assume that it really is a purely personal matter between each individual and God. We all do corrupt and destructive things that we know we're not supposed to do, and this disobedience separates us from our good Creator. But the great news is that, because of Jesus' death on the cross and resurrection, when we repent of those things we are forgiven and restored to right relationship with Him.
Not that I don't gratefully believe this; it's the leap of logic that tends to come next I take issue with – our apparent conviction (in practice, if not in theory) that the consequences of our actions cease to be a concern at the point of repentance. You don't need to look far to see some grim outworkings of such reasoning in the church at the moment: cheapened, reductive ideas about forgiveness have been cited as partly causal to the child abuse scandal in the Anglican church, as well as in discussions prompted by the #ChurchToo sexual harassment awareness campaign. "Who are we to judge whom God has forgiven?" we figure, as we haste to shield and rapidly reinstate the penitent, and protect the reputation of God and the church (as if God needed our protection, or the church deserved it). As for victims themselves ... it is their Christian duty to forgive (Matt 5:9-15, Matt 18:21-35, Eph 4:32), and necessary to their healing process, besides. I caricaturise, but you get the picture.
It is true that the Bible has heaps to say about forgiving one another, "just as in Christ God forgave you" (Eph 4:32). I have found this principle to be transformational and life-giving, to the extent that I manage to obey it (and to the comparatively limited extent that I've needed to, so far). But the commands of God are given to me to live by – not to wield over the lives of others. Acknowledging forgiveness as my responsibility when wronged doesn't by ANY means make it my right when I am in the wrong. In the latter case my responsibility is repentance – remembering that the Greek word metanoia implies an lived-out reorientation of thought and future actions, rather than just "saying sorry". Think, for example, of the story of Zacchaeus, who was so transformed by encounter with Jesus that he pledged to restore what he had taken and more – not to earn Jesus' acceptance of him but in response to it (Luke 19:1-9). In the same way, the unconditional reconciliation with God that I experience when I repent – far from exempting me from human justice and reparation, or magically undoing the consequences of my past actions – should be what gives me hope and energy and courage to face those consequences, however dire, and to engage in the hard and maybe-unachievable-in-my-lifetime work of reconciliation with other people.
I hope and pray that there are Zacchaeus stories in the wake of #ChurchToo and related revelations – perpetrators who are awed by God's grace into new depths of horror at their past actions and of compassion for those harmed; who willingly relinquish exploitative power and fervently seek any opportunity to give of themselves in appropriate restorative action, where possible (which may include, e.g., submitting to the course of law). But the stories that have come my way tell of victims being disbelieved, reproached for speaking out, and shamed, blamed and stranded by their own Christian communities, while the accused are protected, applauded for the courage of their public confessions, and fast-tracked through reassuring redemption narratives, often landing right back in positions of responsibility and influence.
There is an added dimension to the psalm arising from the power dynamic between David and Bathsheba. From a human perspective, David could do what he wanted with any woman he fancied, with little fear of reprisal. There are people who hold to the worldview that "might is right", and there are many more who accept it as an unavoidable reality of life: the powerful abuse and oppress and neglect the vulnerable, and there is no-one to hold them to account. "When the president does it, that means it is not illegal," said Nixon – words with a foreboding contemporary resonance.
Psalm 51 exposes the laughability of such reasoning. Here, as throughout the Bible, God is shown to take the part of the vulnerable against the powerful (e.g. Ex 22:22-24, Deut 10:18, Ps 10:17-18, Prov 14:31, Am 5:11-12, Ja 5:1-6). The mighty David's treatment of Bathsheba and her family puts him at devastating odds with the Almighty. (Compare, e.g., Jesus' parable of the sheep and goats: "The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’" (Matt 25:40)). David was brought to repentance for his actions, with some prompting from Nathan the prophet, and also suffered considerable repercussions. Meanwhile, wary as I am of forcing a redemptive arc for Bathsheba, it is interesting that she is one of four women mentioned (though not quite by name) in Matthew's genealogy of Jesus, whose birth signalled to many the ultimate expression of God's commitment to justice for the sinned-against...
[1] Words matter, and there is an ongoing discussion about the use of "victim" and/or "survivor" to describe people affected by abuse and violence, particularly of a sexual nature. I have opted for "victim" in several places, not to deny or diminish the agency and capacity of the individuals affected but to recognise the injustice of what they have been through and the fact that it is up to each person to say where they consider themselves to be in the process of survival. It also generalises more readily to the wider range of sins and crimes that I had in mind as I wrote. (I am very much open to having my wisdom (or lack of it) challenged in this regard).
[Thumbnail image cc. via Wikimedia Commons.]
Have mercy on me, O God,But I've had a growing unease with it ever since the following was pointed out to me. "Against you, you only have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight..." confesses David to God (Ps 51:4). Meanwhile, the short context-providing note at the start of the psalm explains the particular sin which has prompted this humbled outcry: "A Psalm of David, when Nathan the prophet went to him, after he had gone in to Bathsheba."
according to your steadfast love;
according to your abundant mercy
blot out my transgressions.
Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,
and cleanse me from my sin! (Psalm 51:1-2)
If "gone in to" leaves you wondering, the second book of Samuel elaborates:
One evening David got up from his bed and walked around on the roof of the palace. From the roof he saw a woman bathing. The woman was very beautiful, and David sent someone to find out about her. The man said, “She is Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam and the wife of Uriah the Hittite.” Then David sent messengers to get her. She came to him, and he slept with her. (2 Samuel 11:2-4)Just so we're clear here, David was a king; Bathsheba a subject of his kingdom. Though the biblical account retains a degree of comfortable ambiguity, obeying the summons of her ruler does not make Bathsheba guilty of adultery, it makes her the victim of power rape [1].
Nor does David's wrongdoing against Bathsheba end there. Discovering that she has fallen pregnant, and seeking to avert a scandal, the king brings her husband back from the battle field in the hope that he will likewise "go in" to her and so legitimise her "condition". Ironically, Uriah proves too faithful and noble a man to take advantage of the opportunity for rest and indulgence while his fellow soldiers are still risking their lives and roughing it out in the open. David rewards such high principle by having him sent to the front and abandoned by those same fellow soldiers at the crucial moment, assuring his convenient death. He even tasks Uriah himself to carry the fateful instructions in a letter to his commander. All goes to plan. David waits for Bathsheba to finish mourning her husband, then takes her as one of his several wives before she gives birth to their son. "But the thing David had done displeased the Lord." (2 Sam 11:27b) As if Bathsheba hasn't suffered enough, the child then dies as a consequence of God's judgement against David (2 Sam 12:14-20).
Back to the Psalm – "Against you, you only have I sinned..." David, would you care to clarify? I want to ask. Because if you meant to imply that the consequences of your actions for Bathsheba and her loved ones is irrelevant in the wider context of your personal relationship with God then frankly I'm at a loss. Although, come to think of it, no more of a loss than I often feel with my own faith culture. To hear us talk of sin and forgiveness anyone would assume that it really is a purely personal matter between each individual and God. We all do corrupt and destructive things that we know we're not supposed to do, and this disobedience separates us from our good Creator. But the great news is that, because of Jesus' death on the cross and resurrection, when we repent of those things we are forgiven and restored to right relationship with Him.
Not that I don't gratefully believe this; it's the leap of logic that tends to come next I take issue with – our apparent conviction (in practice, if not in theory) that the consequences of our actions cease to be a concern at the point of repentance. You don't need to look far to see some grim outworkings of such reasoning in the church at the moment: cheapened, reductive ideas about forgiveness have been cited as partly causal to the child abuse scandal in the Anglican church, as well as in discussions prompted by the #ChurchToo sexual harassment awareness campaign. "Who are we to judge whom God has forgiven?" we figure, as we haste to shield and rapidly reinstate the penitent, and protect the reputation of God and the church (as if God needed our protection, or the church deserved it). As for victims themselves ... it is their Christian duty to forgive (Matt 5:9-15, Matt 18:21-35, Eph 4:32), and necessary to their healing process, besides. I caricaturise, but you get the picture.
It is true that the Bible has heaps to say about forgiving one another, "just as in Christ God forgave you" (Eph 4:32). I have found this principle to be transformational and life-giving, to the extent that I manage to obey it (and to the comparatively limited extent that I've needed to, so far). But the commands of God are given to me to live by – not to wield over the lives of others. Acknowledging forgiveness as my responsibility when wronged doesn't by ANY means make it my right when I am in the wrong. In the latter case my responsibility is repentance – remembering that the Greek word metanoia implies an lived-out reorientation of thought and future actions, rather than just "saying sorry". Think, for example, of the story of Zacchaeus, who was so transformed by encounter with Jesus that he pledged to restore what he had taken and more – not to earn Jesus' acceptance of him but in response to it (Luke 19:1-9). In the same way, the unconditional reconciliation with God that I experience when I repent – far from exempting me from human justice and reparation, or magically undoing the consequences of my past actions – should be what gives me hope and energy and courage to face those consequences, however dire, and to engage in the hard and maybe-unachievable-in-my-lifetime work of reconciliation with other people.
I hope and pray that there are Zacchaeus stories in the wake of #ChurchToo and related revelations – perpetrators who are awed by God's grace into new depths of horror at their past actions and of compassion for those harmed; who willingly relinquish exploitative power and fervently seek any opportunity to give of themselves in appropriate restorative action, where possible (which may include, e.g., submitting to the course of law). But the stories that have come my way tell of victims being disbelieved, reproached for speaking out, and shamed, blamed and stranded by their own Christian communities, while the accused are protected, applauded for the courage of their public confessions, and fast-tracked through reassuring redemption narratives, often landing right back in positions of responsibility and influence.
I saw the tears of the oppressed—What about King David? Did he really disregard the suffering he had caused to other people, or did his repentance and reconciliation to God have a reparative aspect for them as well? The Bible says that he comforted Bathsheba in the death of their child, and impregnated her with another (2 Sam 12:24-25). Hmm... No comment. His lyrics, though, whatever you reckon their motivation, are worth a closer look; a bit like the old rabbit–duck optical illusion, those same words which might seem callous simultaneously reveal an awesome and needed truth which speaks right to the heart of the very problem they hint at:
and they have no comforter;
power was on the side of their oppressors—
and they have no comforter. (Ecclesiastes 4:1b)
Against you, you only have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight... (Ps 51:4)It is a mark of our Creator's great love for us "image-bearers" that the crimes and abuses and degradations and exploitations we inflict on each other are nothing less than sins against Himself. This is most fully and excruciatingly realised on the cross, when God Incarnate bodily experienced rejection and torture and humiliation and death at human hands, identifying with other people who have suffered similarly, and somehow "taking on" the guilt of these and all other failures to love God and neighbour. Some sceptics object to the idea of the crucifixion on the grounds that, well, why couldn't God just decide to forgive us? I don't pretend to understand the mechanics of atonement but when I dare to start to contemplate the sheer awfulness of what we humans do to one another the hypothetical scenario in which God just "lets it pass" no longer seems the most merciful and compassionate one.
There is an added dimension to the psalm arising from the power dynamic between David and Bathsheba. From a human perspective, David could do what he wanted with any woman he fancied, with little fear of reprisal. There are people who hold to the worldview that "might is right", and there are many more who accept it as an unavoidable reality of life: the powerful abuse and oppress and neglect the vulnerable, and there is no-one to hold them to account. "When the president does it, that means it is not illegal," said Nixon – words with a foreboding contemporary resonance.
He has performed mighty deeds with his arm;
he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts.
He has brought down rulers from their thrones
but has lifted up the humble.
He has filled the hungry with good things
but has sent the rich away empty. (Luke 1:51-53)
[1] Words matter, and there is an ongoing discussion about the use of "victim" and/or "survivor" to describe people affected by abuse and violence, particularly of a sexual nature. I have opted for "victim" in several places, not to deny or diminish the agency and capacity of the individuals affected but to recognise the injustice of what they have been through and the fact that it is up to each person to say where they consider themselves to be in the process of survival. It also generalises more readily to the wider range of sins and crimes that I had in mind as I wrote. (I am very much open to having my wisdom (or lack of it) challenged in this regard).
[Thumbnail image cc. via Wikimedia Commons.]
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