About 12 summers ago, when I was learning to be your pastor, Joe Roos and I sat on chairs right here and had a conversational sermon about this passage from II Samuel. My take on it then was that David raped Bathsheba. I said we don’t usually talk about it that way but in my understanding, that is what happened. Afterward, at least one person was quite unhappy that I said such mean things about the hero David. But here we are twelve years later, the lectionary gives us the story again and I am not ready to back off from naming the violence in this story.

This year, we read the story in the shadow of our own Mennonite, theologian hero, John Howard Yoder, being accused of sexual abuse. Though he died 18 years ago the pain is still real for those who were abused by him, for those whose family and friends were abused by him. So we should not be surprised that this ancient story of David and Bathsheba can still raise complicated feelings for us. Hearing this story can be an emotional trigger for those who have experienced sexualized violence up close. If that is the case for you today, please do what you need to do to take care of yourself. If it means closing your eyes and ears, leaving this space, or asking for help, please take care of yourself.

It is not pleasant but we do need to hear again the story of Bathsheba. It is important to remember that power can be abused and badly, by religious leaders, police, teachers, parents and anyone in a position of power. And we must find ways to guard against such abuse.

As the text tells us, spring is the time when kings go out to war. David has not gone out to war. Instead, he sends out his top general, Joab, who leads a massacre of the Ammonites. Perhaps the excitement of winning a battle, a battle in which he plays no role, pushes David to look for a way to participate in conquest himself. As he leisurely strolls about the roof of his palace property he notices a beautiful woman. She is not trying to entice King David as we have sometimes been taught; she is taking a ritual bath on a pleasant spring evening.

David makes inquiries about who this is, and whose she is, her father, her husband. Finding out that she is the wife of Uriah, one of his own military commanders, in no way dissuades David from his desires. He will have what he wants, when he wants, where he wants. He orders Bathsheba to be brought to him. And she arrives escorted by the king’s men. Does she have any idea what David has in mind?

When David is finished, Bathsheba goes back to her home. This time there is no mention of a messenger escort. Does Bathsheba flee in tears and terror? Does she walk home slowly in dread and depression? It seems unlikely that she returns home with her head held high, dignity intact.

This is not a love story; it is a story about power. Now that David is king, he is happy to forget that he used to be a powerless, anonymous shepherd boy whose father didn’t even bother to call him in from the fields when the prophet Samuel came to visit. Now that he has power of his own,  he will use it as he wishes.

Sometime later Bathsheba sends a message to David to tell him she is pregnant, and David springs into power mode once again and Bathsheba’s life changes forever. This man of royalty tries to trick her husband, Uriah, into sleeping with Bathsheba so that the pregnancy can be accounted for. But Uriah is more honorable than the king and will not allow himself the pleasure of sleeping with his wife until the battles are over. In order to maintain the pretense of being a man of God, David sees no alternative but to have Uriah killed in battle.

Bathsheba is a victim of David’s abuse of power. She is also a victim of the patriarchy that prizes the experiences, desires and perspectives of men more than those of women. That this patriarchy persists into Christianity is confirmed by a quote from Smith’s Bible Dictionary: It is one of the touching parts of the story that Uriah falls, unconscious of his wife’s dishonor.  http://biblehub.com/topical/u/uriah.htm Granted, this was originally published in 1884 but this particular bible dictionary is now on the internet and is still being marketed and sold today. When we see David and Uriah only as heroes and Bathsheba as being “dishonored” we are taken in by patriarchy as well.

Would Bathsheba call herself a victim? She might say that her great beauty gives her a kind of power. Or that the mere fact that she is a healthy woman gives her power. Certainly her body has power, to bleed monthly and not die, to bring life into the world. David recognizes her power, especially when she becomes pregnant. It terrifies him because his transgression, his abuse of power, will now be on display for everyone to see.

Bathsheba uses her power to call David on what he has done. She does not stay home silently, wondering at this pregnancy. She sends a message to the king as soon as she knows she is pregnant. She uses the power available to her even though it brings death and grief.

I am especially thinking of what it means to be a victim, or claim the title of victim, after having been part of the service of lament at the Mennonite convention in Kansas City. This service was planned in response to the sexualized violence perpetrated by John Howard Yoder though he was not named. This was a service of lament for any who have experienced violence in the context of the church.

As I approached Grace and Holy Trinity Cathedral across from the convention center someone asked me how the week was going. I said, “I am fine. I have been doing this work for years. I know when to put up walls to protect myself.”

As we entered we were given strips of cloth with which to pray, just like we used here in our congregation this past lenten season, just like we were given at Allegheny Conference this past March at the delegate session when we were voted back into full membership. My seat partner didn’t receive a cloth so I gave her mine while I rummaged in my bag to pull out the old cloth I prayed with all during lent. I smiled benignly at all the women walking up and down the aisles of the cathedral carrying boxes of tissues. Clearly there was an expectation that this was to be an evening of emotion.

For some reason, I was not prepared when midway through the service of song and prayer my own tears started to flow. I am fortunate; I have not experienced sexualized violence by church leaders, father, brothers, uncles, friends, strangers. But as I fingered my familiar prayer cloth, the walls I had been constructing all week began to crumble. I got in touch with the struggle I have experienced in the larger Mennonite church for over a decade. Dare I call it violence? or abuse? Am I a victim? Are we, as a congregation, victims?

I became angry, so angry, at how the church and church leaders take advantage of those with less power. My rage turned to sobs for my beloved siblings in this congregation and in so many other places in the church, who are treated as disposable, and dispensable, as if we are not all holy creations worthy of love and honor.

Then I became aware of patriarchy, and knew that a service planned primarily by men would not feature women tenderly walking among the gathered to hold a hand, give a hug, pass a tissue, stand along side. A service with lament so deep can only be planned by those who know pain and sorrow. My rage started all over again.

I am grateful that Annabeth’s mother happened to be a tissue bearer near me. She sat with me while I tried to find my own strength again. As the service came to a close I couldn’t imagine how we could all be turned loose into the night, pain, sorrow, anger and lament, once again turned out of the church. But the final song was not a simple a blessing. It was the South African protest song, “We will not give up the fight, we have only started.”

That song, through my tears, propelled me back to my work as a pastor. There, several rows behind me sat a whole row of beautiful, young, Pink Mennos, struggling with their their own pain and anger. The service over, we sat together. There was nothing I could do, no way I could take away their pain or anger but I could cry with them and listen as they yelled, swore and spoke their truths.

Were we victims, those who gathered with pain and anger, to name the abuse of power that night?

Are we victims, in this congregation, who endured a decade of discipline?

The healing process after violence is no doubt different for an individual than for a congregation. And probably some people looking on would be reluctant to call our congregational experience one of violence. But we can say that it was a struggle. It caused anger, pain and grief. It took time and energy from us and the conference. We are not done yet.

But I must tell you, that ten years ago when the conference delegates voted to discipline us, it was clear to me that I did not want us to call ourselves victims. I had observed another congregation claim the victim mantle when it was disciplined and it seemed to lead to even more pain and a bit of paralysis for the congregation. I did not want that for us.

As your pastor, I have tried very hard to keep us from sinking into what I perceive as a morass of victimhood. If my own understandings have kept you from feeling what you personally need to feel or if I have denied your pain, I am sorry. Do tell me so that I can hear you and walk with you now and, when it is time, to ask for your forgiveness.

My hope in trying to keep us from seeing ourselves too strongly as victims was that we would find the power we do have and live into it. Because, let’s face it, as a primarily white, fairly wealthy congregation, we do have power.

It has taken work and struggle but I believe we have claimed our power in many different ways. We have become a stronger community, supporting each other spiritually, emotionally, financially, physically (think food and sports.) We have called forth new leaders from among us – at all levels. Our renewed sense of hospitality and following in the Jesus way means that each year many new people choose to walk with us as members. Over the decade we have had at least half a dozen students ask to come work with us and learn from us. Three of them are now in congregational ministry themselves.

We have continued to interact with and serve the surrounding community. We rebuilt this building and now seek new partners with whom we can work in this beautiful space. And through it all we remained in relationship with the conference ind the denomination n the ways that we could.

Calling forth our own power as a congregation, and the power in each one of us, is a gift we have given to each other. And I dare say it has been a gift to the larger church and the world.

When we claimed our power and decided not to be victims, it was a surprise to many people outside the congregation. We received the counsel given to us, to remove members from the congregation, but we did not follow it. Neither did we slink away in shame. In this way, we are a bit like Bathsheba. David expected that he could do what he wanted to this beautiful woman and then go back to his comfortable life. But Bathsheba did not go silently; she found her power and challenged the way that he abused his power.

In fact, later on Bathsheba lives into her power as the queen with dignity and grace. She schemes together with the prophet Nathan to make sure that it is her son, Solomon, that succeeds David on the throne. She finds the power she has and uses it, not just for herself but for others.

We must be clear that there are risks to finding and claiming our own power. Bathsheba is made to marry her abuser and then her baby dies. The prophet Nathan says that the child’s death is God’s punishment to David. But of course it is also a cruelty for Bathsheba.

I think of a contemporary woman who used her voice and did not let an abuse of power go unchallenged. On July 10, Sandra Bland was driving down the road to her new job in Texas when she was pulled over by a police officer for a traffic violation. She refused to be silent. She refused to show deference to a police officer whom she believed to be abusing his power. She ended up on the ground, was arrested and later died in a jail cell. This is the mind-numbing horror of what happens when one finds her own power in a system so broken that it cannot allow for any voice but its own.

We who have power, who can be heard, must speak out loudly for those who are silenced, who are killed for daring to seek and find their own power. We who can hear, must listen so that we can stand together, amplifying the pain and struggle so that the broken systems can be dismantled and new saner, safer systems put in place.

As a congregation, we have found our voice and as individuals we are finding our voices. We are aware of the risks and yet there are too many whose voices are still drowned out by the violence of poverty and injustice. There are too many who cannot find and claim their own power. Let us continue to stand with those who need to find their own strength. Let us speak loudly with those who need us to amplify their voices. Let us  follow the words of the prophet: do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God.