Scripture:
First Samuel 25:2-42

It's too bad she missed Beauty and the Beast. That would have met all her criteria. True, it's a fairy tale. But a most romantic one ... a most charming one ... and a most transformational one (which should catch the fringe of a Christian's conscience, given our belief that princes can emerge, over time, from even the ugliest assemblage of raw materials).

But I don't want to talk about that Beauty and the Beast story. I want to talk about this Beauty and the Beast story ... this one from First Samuel ... at the time of the monarchy ... in the northern portion of Israel ... .along about 1000 BC. It is a story that will strike you as being terribly unfamiliar, even if you are a most astute student of the sacred word.

The beauty's name is Abigail. Every translation comments on her beauty, with one going so far as to say that she makes "a lovely appearance." But more than that, she is said to be "clever," "intelligent," and "of good understanding." We are talking "homecoming queen" and "rocket scientist" all wrapped up in the same package.

The beast's name is Nabal. The Bible calls him "surly and mean," "coarse and ill-behaved," and "churlish and evil in his doings." All of which makes me wonder: "How do people like this get mixed up with each other ... to the point of marrying each other?" There are a list of reasons. I have heard them all. But people keep doing it, don't you know ... winding up in these unions which, to non-rose-colored-eyes make absolutely no sense. Then they're stuck.

Which more or less describes Abigail's situation. But at least she is stuck in a nice house. That's because her "beast" is rich. Very rich. Maybe even filthy rich.

Now if this were a fairy tale marriage, her beauty would transform his beastliness (the old "kiss a frog and you never know who might show up" routine). But one suspects that for as much as she kisses and caresses him, charms and cooks for him, cleans and breeds for him, nags and picks at him, yells and screams at him, clams up and goes silent on him, no prince emerges. Which means that this is not a fairy tale.

Unless you call David a prince. David is, at this point in the story, not yet a king. Saul is the king. But David is something of a national hero. Why? Because he is young. Because he is tough. Because he is courageous. And, let's admit it, because he is good looking. Besides, he is part of a culture that is hungry for heroes. But then, most cultures usually are.

Unfortunately, the higher David's stock rises, the more nervous Saul's spirit becomes. I mean, when there are a bunch of young girls dancing in the street, singing,

Saul has killed his thousands,
But David has killed his ten thousands,

it would be hard not to hear footsteps. And Saul hears footsteps. Causing him to come after David. And causing David to flee ... into exile ... in the hills. But here's where the story gets tricky. David is such a natural leader, don't you see, that even in the hills he attracts a group of fighting men, drawn from some of the less credible elements of society. These men become mercenaries who fight for a price. And when there aren't any enemies to attack, there are certainly good folk to defend ... again, for a price. In other words, David's men are in the "protection business." You might compare them to a private security force in present day industry, hired to keep dangerous elements at bay.

And if they find themselves hurting for work, they might do a little defending without being hired ... figuring that once you see them in action, you will pay them what they're worth. If you don't understand this, picture the kid on a side street near Tiger Stadium, who greets you with an extended palm (once the game is over), telling you that he watched your car while you were at the game, thus ensuring that nobody would do anything bad to it. Did he really watch it? Who knows. Do you really pay him? If you ever plan to park there again, you do.

Well, it seems that David and his merry men do a little defense work for Nabal ... without benefit of contract. Like I said, Nabal has a lot of sheep. Meaning that Nabal's sheep make a most appealing target ... out on the hillside ... watched by shepherds ... who would offer little resistance against a marauding band of Bedouin sheep stealers. It appears that David's "gang" provides protection for Nabal's sheep. In fact, Nabal's shepherds subsequently testify as to the effectiveness of David's work, saying: "They were like a wall to us, both by night and by day."

So David should be paid, right? Right! Except he isn't paid. Nabal blows him off. When David sends emissaries to collect, Nabal says: "Who is David? Who is the son of Jesse?" Then he adds: "The hills are full of runaway slaves. Why should I take my meat ... my drink ... and give them to men who come from I know not where?"

Which really galls David, even though much of it is true. So David organizes his men for a full frontal attack on Nabal. Talk about a "collection program." And David's men set out for Nabal's house at the time of the annual sheep shearing festival, where food and drink are consumed in abundance, and where sheep ranchers are expected to be extremely generous.

But before David's men arrive, Abigail hears of their plan through a servant ... a servant who is closer to Abigail than to Nabal, given his word: "Our master is so ill-natured that no one can speak to him."

Well, she's gotta do something, doesn't she? So she gathers together a great feast ... we're talking several picnic baskets here. She sends it off in David's direction. Then she follows herself. Now David has vowed that he will kill every man in Nabal's household. But when Abigail reaches him, she falls before David and pleads for mercy: "My lord, do not take seriously my ill-natured husband. Nabal is his name. And he is as his name." The word "nabal," you see, quite literally means "fool." In short, she is saying: "My husband's name is `fool.' And his name fits."

Then she makes an even more compelling case. She tells David that she senses "future greatness" in him. She sees him as a ruler of God's people. "But," she says, "won't it be a shame if some youthful act of vengeance (or violence) keeps you from your destiny ... or (worse yet) hangs like a stone on your conscience for the rest of your life?" In short, she forces David to weigh present passions against future options ... cooling him down ... cooling him off ... wising him up ... saving him from himself. But, then, women have been doing that to us men for a long time ... saving us from ourselves, I mean. We get all worked up about something. But they say: "Stop and think. Is this a good idea? Do you really want to do this?" Then Abigail concludes her argument by saying to David: "When power comes to you, remember me." Ah ... as the world turneth.

Abigail convinces David. David lays aside his wrath. Then David thanks God that such a woman ... with such a message ... happened to cross his path in the very nick of time.

Whereupon, David goes away. And Abigail goes home. Where she finds her husband drunker than a skunk. But in the morning, "when the wine had gone out of Nabal," she tells him everything. And, as the Bible says: "His heart died within him, and he became like a stone." Ten days later they pronounce him dead. Did God do it? Did guilt do it? Darned if I know. What I do know is that sometimes, when you come up against some hard truths ... about who you are and who you're not ... about what you've done and what you haven't ... about how you're regarded and how you're not ... your mind sends messages to your body that sometimes prove fatal. Most days, the truth frees us. But some days, the truth kills us.

David learns of Nabal's death. David sends a proposal to the lovely and long-suffering Abigail. Whereupon they meet. They marry. Bells ring. Violins sing. The moon smiles. Women reach for their hankies. And everybody lives happily ever after. At least, until Bathsheba comes along.

And I suppose I could stop with the "happily every after" part, suggesting that sometimes things do turn out quite nicely for those who persevere in relationships that have bestial overtones. But as Ellsworth Kalas reminds me, sometimes they don't. Not every frog responds to every kiss. Some frogs never respond to any kiss. And some frogs (who might respond quite nicely to a little therapeutic kissing) wind up married to people who have no lips. "Kiss me, and you will find revealed a handsome prince" ... he said ... "who will fulfill your most ardent desires." To which she said: "If it's all the same to you, at my age I think I'd prefer a talking frog."

Some things never get worked out. Some relationships never get cleaned up ... or cleared up. What happens to natural beauty then? Sure, there are flowers that occasionally grow in the midst of a city's trash. But it's hard. Darned hard. I know people who live with partners who never say anything kind to them ... never do anything nice for them ... never look at them in ways that are sweet, or touch them in ways that are endearing ... never go out of their way for them ... never put themselves out for them ... never walk the second mile with them ... so preoccupied are they with the self and its pleasures.

Are such long-suffering ones really out there?

I believe it.

Are all of them female?

Far from it.

Does everything always work out in the end?

I doubt it.

And moving beyond the private and intimate dualities of "bestial relationships," I have also seen beauty struggling to survive under "bestial conditions." Bad families. Bad neighborhoods. Bad schools. Even bad churches. Squalor is malignant ... meaning that it will eventually smudge and squelch (if not consume) most of the beauty it touches.

I worry about that a lot. Some of my worry comes from the fact that I am getting older and am seeing that not everything gets corrected in due time ... in my time ... in anybody's time. And some of the corrections that do come arrive when it is too late to benefit from them. I mean a tyrant falls, making life better for those in the next generation. Which may be enough, could one forget those who lived ... or half-lived ... or didn't quite live ... in the tyrant's generation. I have no fairy tale answer to any of that.

To be sure, I have seen some beasts transformed. I remember the ne'er-do-well husband who once said to me (in describing how it was that he gradually shed his frog-like skin and became quite a prince of a guy): "You can't be loved by a woman like that ... day after day ... without it beginning to wear on you in a most delightful way." Yes, I have seen beasts transformed.

To be equally sure, I have been some beasts embalmed. Meaning that they die. It happens, you know, both to churlish sheep ranchers of the east and wicked witches of the west ("Hi, ho, the wicked witch is dead.") And people pay their respects (with a modicum of politeness) before they dance, sing, and go on to become the people they could never have become, had the beast (or the beastess) continue to live. Or, as a young minister once told me about his less-than-easy assignment: "Bill, there's not a thing wrong with this church that two or three good funerals won't cure." Yes, I have seen beasts embalmed.

And, to be very sure, I have seen some beasts abandoned. As I said several weeks ago in a sermon entitled "How Much Longer Do I Have to Hang in There?" (about which many of you had much to say, and upon which many of you had much to chew), that not every bestial relationship ... or every set of bestial conditions ... ought to be endured eternally. Let the record show that God's power being what it is ... God's love doing what it does ... and God's grace healing what it heals ... every beast is transformable. But not always by everybody. And not necessarily by me. Or you. Yes, I have seen some beasts abandoned.

But I have also seen some beasts overshadowed, by people who somehow found a way to let their beauty shine ... through it all ... above it all ... beyond it all ... and in spite of it all. So that the beasts (who did not go away, pass away, or change) gradually diminished in stature and influence, so as to seem small by comparison, and scarcely worth remembering in the chronicles of their time.

The beautiful people.

Many of you have seen them.

Some of you have been them.

How does one become them?

Having wracked my brain, I have exhausted every clue, save one. I think that they seek and (in the end) receive something that can only come from God.

Surviving is bred into us. I suppose we can do it by ourselves.

Shining ... that's gotta be a gift.