theblackdostoyevsky

Father,

How did David really feel after he’d slain Goliath? The feat itself, borne in lore both secular and spiritual, is as famous a historical moment as ever has been. So much so, the fact of it has taken on a mythical quality despite it being recorded fact and a holy truth. Reality be stranger than fiction. But, though we celebrate the faith of the young man, his zealous indignation at the defiance of the uncircumcised Philistine against the Living God, his rudimentary weapon, his single slung stone stuck between the eyes of a giant, beheaded with his own sword, imagine the hosts of Israel after that lazer from downtown. (Eat your heart out, Steph.) I can’t imagine any arena eruption comparing to those men celebrating such an improbable victory.

And yet, I don’t believe joy is what David felt that night. I’m more inclined to believe he was curled up in a sheet, trembling naked in bed for fear of every sound. I believe he likely shunned all visitors, denied all invitations for revelry, and suffered great affliction in the ambivalence of the feat wrought by his momentary indwelling by the Holy Spirit.

I’ve noticed, reluctantly, over the years that my most victorious moments wrought in me great pangs of fear, shame and insecurity. While others are patting me on the back and praising my name, I’m on the verge of a panic attack, raring to escape those hopeful eyes and retire into solitude where I can vomit remorse from my toes.

“If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two imposters just the same.”

Success at that level feels more trap than triumph. Imagine David’s temptation. Imagine the h–s” reaction. Imagine the n—–s’ jealousy. Imagine the gossip. Imagine the hatred.

“That n—-a think he cold now.”

“He ain’t s—. You know his mama was a h–.”

“Jesse had his a– out there with the sheep. Ol’ mutton a–, n—–.”

Raucous laughter inflames an anger in David so shameful it masks as embarrassment while meditating murder. He replies, “Man, forget you.”

“You the shepherd, n—-a.”

The crowd. “Bahahahaha!”

That’s what winning really feels like: imposter syndrome. A syndrome dependent on the perceptions of others. A rumor of reputation. The fear of communal misagreement based upon indisputable evidence. (Yeah, I know, “misagreement” isn’t a word, but it’s precisely what I meant.)

The great pitfall of a triumph in skill and wisdom is pride, the sin of satan. Why would a man risk it? For what reward? Money? Notoriety? Honor? The approval of the tyrannical mob? Is it worth it? Can’t be. Nebuchadnezzar ate grass like an ox for eight years because of pride. But we still chase it.

We know better than to make lofty prayers in public for applause, but we still do it.

We know better than to give alms before men or let or left hand know what our right hand doeth, but we still do it.

We know better than to embrace the applause of men, but we still pursue it.

We let it puff our hearts with pride, then we demand a seat at the upper table, when Jesus says sit with the kids. For whatever reason, in our rejected souls, we can’t help but seek the approval of others seeking approval. We compete for it. We applaud even though we’re jealous, then drag the one caught on camera scowling after taking an L, like,

“How dare you allow the envy of your heart to show on your face? Have you no decorum? Pretend, or we’ll cancel any chance of you ever receiving approval in the future.” That’s cancel culture: pretend to love what you’ve been trained to hate. It’s a devilish exercise in vexing men’s souls by forcing them to bow to the vexation in another man’s soul. Blind leading the blind. And here’s the ditch.

And what of the man who chooses to break from the farce? Who triumphs on the unbeaten path? Everybody loves Robert Frost, but how many take his way. They hail his poem as encouragement to others, then nail the one with balls enough to take the road less traveled. I’m a lost ball in high grass, these days. And I like it better this way.

Narrow is the way, and few find it. Yet, everybody swear they going to heaven. Something ain’t adding up.

Many called, few chosen. Something ain’t adding up.

“All who cry into me Lord, Lord” . . .  something ain’t adding up.

The math ain’t mathin’, as they say. Because the one who slew the giant wrote more Psalms about being pursued and ridiculed by his enemies, pleading with the Lord to deliver him from those who sought after his life, than he did about brethren dwelling together in unity. Something ain’t adding up.

Success is a test and a scourge, a cat o’nine tails lashing against my thighs as I run a marathon. Easier to look the part than actually become it, though. Certainly, there’s more security in it. So, we settle for the applause. That’s why we call ’em sellouts. I forget, King David was more at peace in the pits and caves than in the palace.