Not so much. Nathan sees this powerful king and ruler for what he is – someone who has succumbed to the lust that accompanies power. The Lord was angry with David, and rather that this being a hushed up cover up of a powerful leader’s escapades, this story gets told thousands of years later by the full line of David’s Judeo-Christian descendants as a tale of what NOT to do. Also as in much classic storytelling of people getting what they seem to deserve, the baby conceived out of this affair dies. David seems to only have himself to blame, and he is confronted full-face, head on by his remorse.

So where do we find ourselves in this story? Though we may have knowingly seduced someone else’s love or hurt someone in our own relationship histories – I seriously doubt that we’re talking top ranking leadership sex scandal or murder plots here. Where we get sucked in is with the drama of it all. It’s enticing to us to hear stories of a King so caught up in beauty that he would do anything to have this woman as, well, ONE of his wives. The fallen husband Uriah adds to the tragic telling of the tale. And Nathan’s creative way to get David to see his own misdeed strikes us at our own gut level in knowing that we must accept the consequences of our own actions the way that David had to deal with the illegitimate pregnancy, his deceit, and ultimately murder. That God knows all, and that we are even hearing the details of this story as part of the legacy of God’s chosen King ought to surprise us at least a little when our myths of powerful leaders usually leave out such details.

However, we do like to watch the drama and hear other people’s drama. Dr. Phil has made a killing on this principle. We practically drip with it on television, and yet we seem to want the great cover up in ourselves. I believe it explodes in our culture because we are so good at keeping things so secretive, so at arms length. Then, when our outside shell breaks, all the ways in which we have been hurtful and mean just run right out, and voila, another episode of Oprah gets made.

As I’ve been reading some more of Anne LaMott’s books lately to prepare for hearing her talk at a conference in September, I’ve been especially impressed with the realism of the journal she wrote of her son’s first year. One day she can wax eloquent about how much of an angel her baby is, and the next day she’s tired, he’s colicky and she correctly places her feelings for wanting to throw him out the window. She admits that it took her a long time to discern the drama from the reality. The drama has a tremendous lure. We like the attention focused on ourselves. We want the world to revolve around our own needs even when we’re having a day that we feel like garbage – we long to be that piece of garbage the world revolves around.

So at one point she says that she was wishing for a relationship in her life. As a single mother, it was rough seeing all the families that had a Dad around. As it happened, a good-looking funny man asked her out. But some of her friends knew this man and told her that he was commitment-phobic, that he was very far from her in all of her values, and that his relationship pattern would only take her on an emotional roller coaster ride. They’d seen it before. But she yearned for that romantic drama. It was a friend of hers that had gone through AA that helped her through her desires to a decision not to accept the date. She said, “Anne, do you want the hit or do you want the serenity?”

When I read that, it seemed like a profound question that all of us could ask ourselves more often. Are we in this for the hit, for the way that some small win will make us feel at the moment? Or, are we in this to work toward a more serene life that honors all our relationships? We take the hit whenever we lose self-control and make a decision based purely on our own needs without regard to anyone else. It doesn’t have to be a head dive into a rocky relationship. It can be as simple as having to win an argument with a good friend or partner. It can mean a jab at the ballpark that my kid is a better ball player than your kid. It can mean buying a new car or a new outfit just to feel good. It is anything that shows our more manipulative sinful selves, the cretin inside if you will.

Now I’m no holy-roller preacher that’s going to tell you all how you’re going to hell if you don’t repent. That certainly wasn’t Nathan’s point, and David had done some pretty rotten things. Nathan pointed out David’s faults so that David could renew his relationship with God. Seeing himself for who he truly was caused remorse and grief, but it was also what allowed him to change and turn his heart to a more beneficent route.

The same is true of the New Testament passage. Jesus doesn’t want followers who are looking for the hit. Yes, religion can be the hit as much as anything else. The crowd wanted signs and proof. They saw Jesus fill the 5,000 with food, and they were looking for more bread. They wanted to capture Jesus in a bottle like you would a genie so they could have their prayers fulfilled just like their stomachs had been. Jesus comes into his prophetic role much like Nathan and tells them they’ve got it all wrong. Jesus isn’t the miracle worker, he’s the miracle. He’s the bread. He’s the serenity. He’s what real life is about so that when we hunger and thirst we will look for true spiritual nourishment and not just a feel-good moment.

This is the scandal that will make Christ’s followers out of step with our culture. Religion is not a quick fix. It is a life-long practice. It is choosing serenity as often as we possibly can, and recognizing when we’ve gone the instant gratification route instead. Feeling superior to someone else only feels good for a flash. Usually when the high wears off, the hurt of knowing we’ve injured someone else lasts much longer. Religion cannot be marketed to a niche audience just by hi-tech high-resolution storytelling, it can only be taught and practiced by those who have lived the story and are willing to share how they’ve fallen and gotten back up with others.

Amen.