This weekend, or at least on Tuesday, most of us will enjoy some time off and celebrate: with a barbeque, a trip to the beach, or a parade and fireworks. We're celebrating the Declaration of Independence, and at some point we may read, or hear, the words Americans have treasured through the centuries: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness...and that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or abolish it." In a world that still recognized the divine right of kings, these words were revolutionary—and they still are. They've inspired people around the world to rebel against kings and states, from the French Revolutionaries to the Viet Minh. The truth that all men are created equal was lifted up in the fight against slavery and in struggles for civil and human rights. Once the phrase was corrected to be inclusive—"all men and women are created equal"—it was cited in the Convention for Women's Rights at Seneca Falls in 1848.
As beautiful as the words are, we know the reality was more complicated. That when the writers of the declaration said all "men" were created equal they really did mean "men;" equality for women probably hadn't crossed their minds. We also know they didn't mean ALL men. They didn't mean white men without property—the government didn't rest on their consent. They didn't mean African men, or women or children—many of the founding fathers held slaves. They didn't mean Iroquois or Algonquin men, or women or children—they were killed to open the way for settlers. We may even wonder if their grievances against King George were overstated. We know the wars that established American independence were long and bloody, with plenty of collateral damage. Yes, the reality was messy, but we tend to overlook that in our Fourth of July celebrations. We focus on the words of the Declaration that took on a wonderful life of their own. We remember the good that came with independence and the heroes of the revolution. Our memory is selective.
Selective memory was also at work in these words of David. David, who is not yet king, has just heard that King Saul and his son Jonathan were killed in a battle with the Philistines. He laments, and in his song, Saul and Jonathan are remembered as heroes and mourned as friends. They are the mighty of Israel who have fallen. The sword of Saul never returned empty, his shield was anointed by God. Likewise, the bow of Jonathan did not turn back. They were also beloved and lovely, united in life and death. Swifter than eagles, and stronger than lions. The daughters of Israel are told to weep over Saul, and to keep the news from the Philistines, who would rejoice that the mighty had fallen.
In the tradition of eulogies, especially eulogies for heads of state, David refuses to speak ill of the dead. But if you've read the book of Samuel, you know that the story of Saul, David, and Jonathan was more complicated. Saul's military record was mixed: as the first King of Israel, his shield had been anointed by God, but years before God had taken away that blessing and given it to the young David, anticipating his kingship. In the early days, Saul had been victorious over the Philistines and established the Kingdom, but in his later years he was a pathetic figure. He was jealous of David and tried to kill him. Far from being strong as a lion, he was isolated, weak, and frightened in the face of battle. In one of his last, desperate acts, he went to a medium—a woman who conversed with the dead—so he could consult with the ghost of Samuel. Nor were Saul and Jonathan united; ultimately, Jonathan remained loyal to Saul. They were bitterly divided over David, and Saul threatened Jonathan, too. And to further complicate the picture, there were all those people David didn't even think to mourn; the women and children killed by the sword of Saul or the bow of Jonathan. The villages and fields laid to waste after years of fighting.
David's selective memory is understandable. Israel was defeated; the Philistines were threatening to overtake them completely, and it wasn't the time to meditate on Saul's failings or their military losses or even the transgressions of Israel in wartime. Assuming that David truly spoke these words, he may have also been wanting to go on record as a supporter of Saul, to counter any accusations that he was a usurper to the throne. And surely he was truly grieving the loss of Jonathan.
Now I know some of you haven't been listening to what I'm saying because you've been distracted by the words in verse 26. But Pride was last month. In this pulpit we're on to a new curriculum. If you want to read about the kiss or speculate about a possible love relationship, you'll have to read 1 Samuel 18 to 21 by yourself.
But back to David, the amazing fact is this: you only need to flip a few pages back or forward to find all this stuff that contradicts David's lament. Granted, it's not objective history, and scholars spend life times trying to discern the politics and theology of those who wrote this story. But historically accurate or not, neither Saul nor David are unimpeachable in our Bible, to put it mildly. We learn, for example, that just before Saul's death, David spent over a year fighting with the Philistine army. He may have been driven into their arms by Saul's jealousy, but it's hardly heroic behavior. We learn of David's transgressions as King, including his adultery with Bathsheba and the murder of her husband. In the story we also learn of things ancient peoples believed without question but which horrify us: for example, that God withdrew the blessing from Saul because when God ordered Saul to kill all the people and animals in a battle with the Amalekites, Saul spared a few sheep and cattle. The many people who wrote and edited the Bible included the ugly and shameful alongside the noble. They included pages upon pages of self-criticism when they added the prophetic books. This textbook would not have been approved by the local school board. But they did not clean up the Word of God. What an act of faith and courage that was!
This past week, there was an article in the New York Times about an American soldier killed in Iraq. Sgt. Terry Michael Lisk was killed on June 28 by a mortar shell. His comrades and friends mourned him; they remembered the way he cheered them up, and no one knew for sure where his family was. As his body was being taken away, the commander of the brigade, Colonel Sean McFarland, said to his troops: "I don't know if this war is worth the life of Terry Lisk, or 10 soldiers, or 2,500 soldiers like him. What I do know is that he did not die alone—he was surrounded by friends." Colonel McFarland did not try and comfort those friends by repeating slogans about spreading democracy, or staying the course or winning a war. He didn't eulogize Sgt. Lisk as a great war hero. He voiced a faithful and courageous question, a question that should be asked of every war—including the American Revolution and the Israelite-Philistine war of 3,000 years ago. Is this war worth the death?
This is a hard question to ask, especially on the Fourth of July. We fear dishonoring friends or family who are fighting. We fear the guilt and responsibility we'd face if we confessed to waging an unjust war. We fear the conflict among us, as we come out on different sides of this question. Most of us yearn to accept the uncomplicated version: that we're spreading democracy and fighting for freedom. That our country is a force for good in the world. And the powers count on that. Even when the intentions of our leaders are good; they count on us to accept the myths. They depend on our selective memories—of the distant and the recent past—to recruit young women and men for battle. To acquiesce in the billions we spend each month. To accept the carnage without protest.
But as Christians, we don't have to believe our national myths. We can face the truth of our history, the ugly and shameful along with the noble. Like the people who came before us in faith, we can remember, even honor, our nation's foremothers and forefathers in all their goodness and sinfulness. We can wrestle with the hard questions of war because our ultimate loyalty is not to the United States of America, to the flag or to the republic for which it stands. It's to the God of all nations and all peoples. The God of the Israelites and Philistines, colonists and kings, Americans and Iraqis and Afghanis. The God who is no respecter of nation or gender or class. The God who calls us to study war no more, to lay down our sword and shield by the riverside. The God who redeems us in Jesus Christ, and who loves us with a steadfast love.