Max Lucado Read Free Page B

disruption. Immorality sired brutality. The people had demanded a king—but rather than save the ship, Saul had nearly sunk it. Israel’s first monarch turned out to be a psychotic blunderer.
    And then there were the Philistines: a warring, bloodthirsty, giant-breeding people, who monopolized iron and blacksmithing. They were grizzlies; Hebrews were salmon. Philistines built cities; Hebrews huddled in tribes and tents. Philistines forged iron weapons; Hebrews fought with crude slings and arrows. Philistines thundered in flashing chariots; Israelites retaliated with farm tools and knives. Why, in one battle the entire Hebrew army owned only two swords—one for Saul and one for his son Jonathan (1 Sam. 13:22).
    Corruption from within. Danger from without. Saul was weak. The nation, weaker. What did God do? He did what no one imagined. He issued a surprise invitation to the nobody from Nowheresville.
    He dispatched Samuel to Red Eye, Minnesota. Not really. He sent the priest to Sawgrass, Mississippi. No, not exactly. He gave Samuel a bus ticket to Muleshoe, Texas.
    Okay, he didn’t do that either. But he might as well have. The Bethlehem of Samuel’s day equaled the Red Eye, Sawgrass, or Muleshoe of ours: a sleepy village that time had forgotten, nestled in the foothills some six miles south of Jerusalem. Bethlehem sat two thousand feet above the Mediterranean, looking down on gentle, green hills that flattened into gaunt, rugged pastureland. Ruth would know this hamlet. Jesus would issue his first cry beneath Bethlehem’s sky.
    But a thousand years before there will be a babe in a manger, Samuel enters the village, pulling a heifer. His arrival turns the heads of the citizens. Prophets don’t visit Bethlehem. Has he come to chastise someone or hide somewhere? Neither, the stoop-shouldered priest assures. He has come to sacrifice the animal to God and invites the eld-ers and Jesse and his sons to join him.
    The scene has a dog-show feel to it. Samuel examines the boys one at a time like canines on leashes, more than once ready to give the blue ribbon, but each time God stops him.
    Eliab, the oldest, seems the logical choice. Envision him as the village Casanova: wavy haired, strong jawed. He wears tight jeans and has a piano-keyboard smile. This is the guy, Samuel thinks.
    â€œWrong,” God says.
    Abinadab enters as brother and contestant number two. You’d think a GQ model had just walked in. Italian suit. Alligator-skin shoes. Jet-black, oiled-back hair. Want a classy king? Abinadab has the bling-bling.
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    God does not see the same way people see.
People look at the outside of a person, but the Lord looks
at the heart. (1 Samuel 16:7) NCV
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    God’s not into classy. Samuel asks for brother number three, Shammah. He’s bookish, studious. Could use a charisma transplant but busting with brains. Has a degree from State University and his eyes on a postgraduate program in Egypt. Jesse whispers to Samuel, “Valedictorian of Bethlehem High.”
    Samuel is impressed, but God isn’t. He reminds the priest, “God does not see the same way people see. People look at the outside of a person, but the Lord looks at the heart” (1 Sam. 16:7 ncv).
    Seven sons pass. Seven sons fail. The procession comes to a halt.
    Samuel counts the siblings: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. “Jesse, don’t you have eight sons?” A similar question caused Cinderella’s stepmother to squirm. Jesse likely did the same. “I still have the youngest son. He is out taking care of the sheep” (16:11 ncv).
    The Hebrew word for “youngest son” is haqqaton. It implies more than age; it suggests rank. The haqqaton was more than the youngest brother; he was the little brother—the runt, the hobbit, the “bay-ay-ay-bee.”
    Sheep watching fits the family haqqaton. Put the boy where he can’t cause trouble. Leave him with woolly heads and open