Journal Entry: 28 Elul, in the Eighteenth Year of David (992 B.C.)*
Yesterday was like every other day these past seven months. Every morning, the sun has struck the eastern slopes of the city, and a pang of regret has struck my spirit. Today is no different. I am a man without hope, without vision, without all the courage and confidence that I used to breathe.
I thought Jerusalem would be the place we established God's everlasting presence in his glorious temple. I thought it would be the epicenter of the radiance of his glory. I thought God was going to use my life for his good purposes, but after eighteen years at this, I wonder if I can make it even one more day as Israel's king.
How do I move on? My crime has chained me to falsehood; my regret has become an immovable mountain; my sin has paralyzed me. I cannot move. I cannot think. I cannot lead. I cannot be the man Yahweh dreamed I would become when he sent the prophet to tell me—me, the eighth, last, and forgotten son of Jesse—that I would become Israel's king. He graced me with a colossal victory over the giant, but now I have succumbed to colossal defeat at the hand of my own desires.
To the naked eye, my ruse has proven successful. I am still king. Bathsheba is my wife. Our child is on the way. There is no escape from this situation—all I can do is proceed in the fiction. We have made it. And there is no way out. Only my journal knows the truth, and my popularity is on the rise.
But what is success and fame when the inner man is perishing? And how can I go one more day with my bones wasting away and my strength drying up like the midsummer landscape? I do what I can to be the mighty man of God—David!—but night and day is one insufferable groan as God's hand is heavy upon me. He also knows the truth, and I am dislocated and broken, a shell of myself, my own worst enemy. But I must summon what little energy I have to be king for one more day—if I can make it that long.
Journal Entry: 29 Elul, in the Eighteenth Year of David (992 B.C.)
Yesterday, a flood of doubt overtook me. Or was it belief—belief that I could not endure even one more day under the weight of my sin? I awoke at the peak of pain, the pinnacle of misery, but by day's end, I was forgiven, loved, and cleansed. I arose yesterday entrenched, trapped, and fearful but fell asleep rescued, hopeful, and full of courage.
I will tell my children and grandchildren of this day and that the wounds of a true friend are ever faithful to cleanse and heal. Sycophants and tyrannical men have done my wicked bidding, but at least one true friend remains. Nathan came to me with tact and wisdom, speaking of rich and poor, innocence and oppression, love and brutality. I hated his tale of injustice, and when he told me the wealthy man had stolen the poor traveler's beloved lamb, all the disapproval and rage I had felt for myself rushed out of my mouth. My wrath was hot; I could feel every fiber and fingertip flexing with hatred for that man. And as I vomited out my vitriol for the reckless greed Nathan portrayed, he jolted me with his shout of rescue—You are the man!
Nathan's words were an immovable mirror that showed me an adulterous murderer. I cannot blame my circumstances. I cannot blame Bathsheba. I cannot blame my lack of support. I cannot blame Samuel's absence. I cannot blame my quick rise to power. I cannot blame Saul. I cannot blame human nature. I cannot blame my father or my childhood or the fact I was a lonely shepherd boy at such a young age. I cannot blame anyone or anything—I did this.
But Nathan's mirror was also a tunnel of escape from my prison. I was known, but I was not eliminated. My sin has cost me greatly, but at least now, there can be truth again in my inner being. My spirit is broken; my heart is contrite. Have mercy on me, O God. Blot out my transgressions and—if you will have me—wash me thoroughly from my iniquity. Replace my disease with a clean heart. Eradicate my shame and give me a right spirit. Do not cast me away. Remove not your Holy presence from me.
I am a new man. I have paid a terrible price. God has made it clear: I will suffer public disgrace and personal hardship, but he has put away my sin. Just as he moved forward with those who worshiped the golden calf, my gracious, merciful, and loving God is going to move forward with me. My soul—my wretched, cancerous soul—has been redeemed by the only one who could redeem it.
In the light once again, Yahweh has restored the joy of my salvation. My shame was a burden I could not bear. I thought it would crush me—and if it didn't, I thought God would finish the job. But he sent this misery. He delivered this shame. He commissioned Nathan. He enlivened my spirit. He softened my heart. He gave me ears to hear. And now I have found him again. He is my friend. He is my surgeon. He is my Father. And I will never stop—over and over again—running to him.
[^*]: Note: This is a historical fiction piece based on Scripture (2 Sam. 11-12, Ps. 32, 51). I wrote it for our church's recent worship night. I tried to put myself in David's sandals. We do not know the precise year his fall took place, but we do know much of his inner workings through his own writings in the Psalms.