A little Israeli boy dancing to the beat of drums and the shofar at the top of Masada
Eight-year-old children have a two percent success rate when it comes to predicting their future profession. Unfortunately not everyone can be a superhero (no matter how awesome they look in tights). If we lived in a society comprised solely of firemen and police officers our taxes would hover around the 700% range. When I was eight I was convinced I would one day pitch for Texas A&M, enter the draft early, and enjoy a lengthy career twisting fork balls and sliders past unsuspecting cleanup hitters en route to numerous World Series M.V.P. awards. I would be humble, of course, devoting my free time to those who were (for whatever reason) unable to achieve their dreams.
In the summer following my forth grade year I was on the light blue team, surrounded by pre-pubescent boys who shared the same dream of future glory. When the coach asked me what position I played I about laughed in his face. “Obviously I’m a pitcher,” I said. I’m left-handed, which severely limits my ability to play, say, second base. Thus, from the time I was six I began hurling fastballs with my dad at the park. “Yeah coach, I’m definitely a pitcher.” I was selected to put on a pitching display at the first practice. I strutted my way to the mound, kicked up a cloud of dust as I dug in, and threw my first pitch. Clink. Jacob sent my forty mile per hour fastball into shallow left field (which is basically a home run in forth grade baseball). I hung my head, mustered up every remaining shred of confidence that was currently leaking from my left arm and served Tony another fastball. Tony actually made Jacob’s hit look like a foul tip. A whispered snicker emerged from the dugout. I obviously wasn’t throwing hard enough. I though to myself as Nick walked to the plate (a big smile drawn across his face), “What if I just threw the ball as hard as I could?” So I did. I reached back into Memphis, drew my arm back across the corn fields of Iowa, and unleashed a lethal fastball straight up the heart of the Mississippi River. Nick only saw the vapor trail. I struck out eight batters in the three innings during the first game of the season. The rest of the season went like that. I was well on my way to unspeakable glory. Soon there would be Aggies scouts at my games and a series of zeros on my paychecks (which would certainly beat my $5/week allowance).
West of the Judean Hill Country lies what is called the Shephelah (the “western foothills” in your Bible). This stretch of rolling limestone hills historically demarcated the border between Israel and Philistia. If Israel was able to penetrate the Shephelah and enter the Coastal Plain, into cities like Ekron and Gath, they would have easy access to key international trade routes and the taxation rights which went along with the lands. However, if Philistia entered the Judean Hill Country towns like Bethlehem, Hebron and Gibeah could easily be taken. It was a risk the Israelites were (on many occasions) willing to take. 1 Samuel 17 tells the familiar tale of David and Goliath.
Five stones overlooking the Elah Valley--the battleground of David and Goliath
We all know the story: David’s brothers are at a lookout spot over the Elah Valley staring at a mounting Philistine army scattered across the hillsides beneath the town of Azekah like locusts. Saul, their fearless king, the one all of Israel cried out for just a few chapters earlier, is shaking in his boots. He knows that if the Philistines defeat him (and all signs point to the fact that they will), nothing will stand between them and Bethlehem. Saul knows that if Bethlehem falls, so too will his capital at Gibeah. A challenge arises from Philistine camp. A mammoth man marches his way toward the valley floor, looks into the wide eyes of the Israelite army, and begins cursing their leaders, their courage, and their God. David shows up. Jesse (his father) sent him to the front lines in order to bring a bit of food to Saul and his brothers, as well as to gather a report. Jesse wants to know whether or not he should start rounding up the sheep, packing the family’s belongings, and preparing for exile. David hears the giant’s taunting, slips beneath the shivering hearts of the soldiers, down the hillside, and face-to-face with the blasphemer. David is victorious; not with a sword or a legion of soldiers, but with a single stone which he sinks between the eyes of the giant. Saul, after shaking off the shock of watching a shepherd boy take down the giant, pursues the bewildered Philistines as far as Ashdod and Ekron…all the way to the sea.
The possible site of the Philistine camp at the Valley of Elah
Have you ever wondered why God used David to accomplish such a feat? A generation or two earlier, the roles were reversed. Israel had a giant of its own: Samson. The flowing-locked man from just outside of Beth-Shemesh terrorized the Philistine heartland (at one point storming Gaza [its capital], tearing off the gate to the city, and carrying it 50 miles East and 3,000 feet straight uphill to Hebron). Imagine Samson and Goliath stepping toe-to-toe in the Valley of Elah. Frazier and Ali, Tyson and Holyfield (minus the ear chewing), this would have been billed as, “The Battle of B.C.”
Of course, it didn’t work out that way. Samson’s end was bittersweet, his blind eyes searching the heavens for one last surge of strength to send the House of Dagon (the Philistine pagan temple that stood in the center of Gaza) down on top of him. God didn’t send Samson to Elah, He sent David. Goliath laughed in his face. He was insulted at the thought of Israel sending a boy to face the full force of his strength, to do their dirty work. His mocking was silenced the moment David loosed his sling.
A shepherd with his sheep and goats near Azekah
I continued to throw hard. Fifth and sixth grades swept by in a blur. Fame and accolades were always just around the corner. I was silencing my critics, it seemed, with every pitch. Then seventh grade struck like a tax audit. I’m convinced that seventh grade is percentage-wise (and I realize I have no way of proving this) the most horrible year of life for the majority of Americans. My arm stopped working that year. I’d pitch an inning, feeling like my elbow was on fire, hang my head, and stumble back to the dugout. My days of throwing hellfire fastballs past starstruck hitters was over. For good. I was never again called “Samson”. My hair was cut. From eighth grade on, the outs I made for our team were due to accurate pitch placement and mastery of off-speed pitches. Scouts were never impressed and Texas A&M never called. I’m David, not Samson. I’m the shepherd boy sent to the hills to write poems and point ignorant sheep to sparse strips of winter grass at the far edges of civilization. And when I embrace my David-ness, when I start swinging my shepherd’s sling over my head, God is going to do something beautiful.
