The Spear, The Lyre and a Couple of Boiled Eggs

I know what you’re thinking… it’s not Monday. Why am I getting a Grace & Grit article today?

Well, I’m sat in an Airbnb in Darlington, drinking a coffee and waiting for a couple of eggs to boil before heading back for day two of a leaders’ conference, and I wanted to share something I’ve been reflecting on.

Yesterday I listened to a teaching session from Chris Frost that I haven’t quite been able to shake.

Now, if you gather a few hundred church leaders in one place, you expect to hear about mission, church planting, discipleship, leadership and reaching people with the gospel. And rightly so. Those things matter. What I wasn’t expecting was to spend the evening thinking about a garden trowel taped to a stick.

To be fair, Chris called it a spear.

Technically, I suppose it was. In the same way that my old Ford Focus was technically a sports car.

It wasn’t exactly museum quality, but it worked. Twenty-four hours later, sat here with my coffee and boiled eggs, I’m still thinking about it. Because the spear wasn’t really the point. The heart behind it was.

Saul, David and a Spear

The session explored the contrast between Saul and David. Both were chosen by God. Both became kings. Both were flawed men who experienced incredible highs and devastating lows. Yet as their stories unfold, a clear difference emerges.

When David’s success grows, Saul becomes jealous. When he feels threatened, he reaches for control. When he’s challenged, he becomes defensive. When correction comes, he pushes back. Saul literally throws a spear at David. Later, he throws one at his own son Jonathan.

David, on the other hand, repeatedly reaches for worship. That’s not to say he was perfect. Far from it. His failures were spectacular and painfully public. Yet when Nathan confronts him over Bathsheba, David doesn’t reach for self-defence. He reaches for repentance. Psalm 51 isn’t the prayer of a man trying to protect his image. It’s the prayer of a man desperate for a clean heart.

Again and again, Saul reaches for the spear while David reaches for the lyre. One instinctively moves towards control, self-protection and self-preservation. The other repeatedly returns to worship, repentance and dependence on God.

And if I’m honest, that’s the bit that has stayed with me.

Pride Wearing a Trench Coat

Pride is a funny thing. Or perhaps terrifying would be a better word.

The problem with pride is that it rarely introduces itself properly. It doesn’t normally walk through the front door announcing, “Good evening, I’m pride and I’m here to ruin your life.” It’s much sneakier than that.

In fact, pride often turns up dressed as humility.

A bit like two kids trying to sneak into an 18-rated film by standing on each other’s shoulders inside a long trench coat. Everybody else can see what’s going on. Somehow we convince ourselves nobody will notice.

I’ve seen it happen in church life. I’ve seen it happen in leadership. If I’m honest, I’ve seen it happen in my own heart too.

We say things like, “Oh, it was nothing really,” while secretly hoping someone tells us how amazing we are. We brush off encouragement while feeling slightly disappointed if nobody notices what we’ve done.

Pride doesn’t always shout, “Look at me!”

Sometimes it whispers, “No, no, don’t look at me…” while peeking through its fingers to make sure everybody still is.

That’s what makes it so dangerous. It’s sneaky enough to disguise itself as virtue.

The Spear I Carry

One of the challenges of leadership is that nobody sets out to become Saul.

No church leader wakes up one morning thinking, “Today feels like a great day to become insecure, controlling and spiritually unhealthy.”

The drift is always gradual.

As someone who has recently stepped into leading Freedom Church, I don’t read Saul’s story and think, “Well, that could never be me.” I read it and think, “Lord, keep me humble.” And perhaps more importantly, “Lord, surround me with people who’ll tell me when I’m not.”

Because left unchecked, pride has a habit of growing in the same soil as genuinely good things: responsibility, leadership, influence, success and service. That’s why accountability isn’t a burden. It’s a gift.

For me, though, the spear I’m most likely to pick up isn’t aggression or control.

It’s self-reliance.

My tendency isn’t usually to throw the spear. It’s to grit my teeth, keep smiling, tell everyone I’m fine, and carry on until I mentally, emotionally or physically hit a wall.

Different behaviour. Same underlying problem.

Pride isn’t always thinking you’re better than everybody else.

Sometimes it’s quietly believing everything depends on you.

Covert Burnout and the Lyre

I’ve become increasingly aware over the years that I’m capable of what I can only describe as covert burnout.

Not the dramatic kind everybody sees coming. The quieter version. The version where you’re still showing up, still serving, still smiling and still getting things done. The version where nobody else notices because outwardly everything appears fine.

Sometimes not even you notice.

Those who know me well will know that autism adds another layer to this. Masking can happen almost automatically. Sometimes I don’t even realise how much pressure I’m carrying until much later. It’s a bit like driving a car with the warning lights covered over with electrical tape. The engine is still overheating. You’ve just removed the thing telling you about it.

That’s one reason David’s response challenges me so much. Again and again, when life squeezes him, he returns to God. He worships. He prays. He pours his heart out in the Psalms. He strengthens himself in the Lord.

He reaches for the lyre.

What struck me most about this contrast is that, for me, it isn’t entirely symbolic.

When life gets heavy, one of the first things I often do is pick up a guitar or sit at the piano. Not because music magically fixes everything. It doesn’t. But worship has a remarkable way of putting God back in His rightful place and me back in mine.

David reached for a lyre.

Three thousand years later, I still think he was onto something.

Someone Better Than David

If I’m honest, one of my concerns whenever I attend a conference is that I’ll come away with a notebook full of interesting thoughts and a life that remains largely unchanged.

I’ve had enough “that’s interesting” moments to last a lifetime.

What I’m hoping for with this one is something different. I’m hoping that somewhere between the coffee, the worship, the conversations and the drive home from Darlington, this truth starts to seep a little deeper into my daily consciousness.

Because ultimately, this isn’t really about becoming more like David.

David points us to someone better.

When Saul reached for the spear, David often reached for the lyre. When confronted with his sin, David repented. When given opportunities to destroy his enemies, David showed remarkable grace.

But David was never the hero of the story.

The same David who spared Saul later arranged for Uriah to be killed. The same David who wrote some of the most beautiful worship songs ever penned also wrote Psalm 51 because he desperately needed forgiveness.

David wasn’t the destination. He was a signpost.

Jesus is where the sign points.

Where David often chose humility, Jesus embodied it perfectly. Where David showed grace to his enemies, Jesus died for His enemies. Where David welcomed Mephibosheth to his table, Jesus welcomes rebels into His family. Where David repeatedly returned to worship and dependence on His Father, Jesus lived in perfect obedience every moment of His life.

And unlike David, Jesus never needed to repent.

David occasionally laid down the spear.

Jesus never picked it up.

Instead, He allowed Himself to be pierced for our pride, our self-reliance and every other sin we try so hard to hide beneath a respectable trench coat.

Which means that when pride sneaks into our hearts, grace still meets us there.

Not with condemnation.

Not with shame.

But with the loving correction of a good Father who wants something better for His children.

And that’s very good news for all of us.