“I swear by the LORD, the man who did this deserves to die!” (2 Sam 12.5). This judgment, declared by David after hearing the story that Nathan tells about a stolen lamb echoes loudly throughout the Text. It’s one of the most famous judgment scenes in the entire Bible, second only to the equally self-condemnatory “Give us Barabbas” (John 18.40). We know the context: it’s in response to David’s rape of Bathsheba and his murder of Uriah. But, as is often the case when we are so familiar with a passage, sometimes we miss some subtleties that deepen the story. So, let’s look once more at the story that Nathan the Prophet tells David, consider its ancient context of honor theft, and then ask if maybe—just maybe!—we might be doing the same in our use of AI.
When Uriah’s wife heard that her husband, Uriah, had died, she mourned for him. But when the period of mourning was complete, David sent men to bring her to his house and she bore him a son. But the thing that David had done was evil in the eyes of the LORD, so the LORD sent Nathan to David. Nathan came to him and said:
“There were two men in a city: one was rich, and the other was poor. The rich man had flocks and herds, many and mighty. The poor man, on the other hand, had nothing except a single small ewe that he’d purchased for himself. He had raised her and she had grown up together with him and his children: from his crumbs she would eat, from his cup she would drink, and on his chest she would sleep—she was just like a daughter to him.
But then a guest came to the rich man, but the rich man was unwilling to take one of his sheep or one of his cattle to provide for the guest who had come to him. Instead, he took the lamb that the poor man had and he prepared it for his own guest and gave it to him…”
At this, David grew enraged at the rich man. He interrupted Nathan, “I swear by the LORD, the man who did this deserves to die on account of what he has done! He must make it right, four lambs to the one. Not only because he has done this thing, but because he has shown no compassion (2 Sam 11.26–12.6).
The story is haunting enough as it is, but when you look more closely, there’s even more going on: David sent men to take Bathsheba to his house, so God sent a man to take a message to his house as well; David knows the Law (Exd 22.1) but does not do it; Nathan’s little lamb is “like a daughter” (bat in Hebrew), and David must repay it (at least according to the LXX of Prv 6.31) “sevenfold” (sheva in Hebrew), echoing the very name of the lamb that he stole. But embedded also in this narrative is David’s recognition that the circumstances or mindset behind a crime can make things worse than even the crime itself—it’s one thing to steal a sheep, it’s another to have no compassion about it.
But how exactly does David not have compassion? And why is there so much extra information about this whole narrative? If this matter were simply about theft, why emphasize the guest right and compassion? The answer is that the real injustice isn’t just the theft of a lamb, but reputation and honor as well.
You see, in the ancient world, being a good host is a crucial demand of society. When someone does it well, they are greatly blessed (Gen 18); when they do it poorly (or perversely) they are greatly punished (Gen 19; Jgs 19). Being a good host came with honor, and the better one provided for one’s guests the greater the honor one received. Whether fatted calf or stolen lamb, providing such a meal to a guest brought with it power. The issue of course is that this is a sacrifice that costs David nothing; he is gaining honor and reputation and power from something that was stolen from something else and that he has passed along as his.
“Look at how good David is! He’s taken in the wife of his friend to raise up a child for him! Don’t you know that isn’t always common. Don’t you remember Mr. So-an-So who refused to marry Ruth (cf. Ruth 4.5–7)? Bad business that, even if it is understandable. I’m glad our king isn’t like that! I’m glad our king cares about Uriah and Bathsheba!”
You might think this is overblown. But if you consider all cases of Levirate marriage in the Bible—and as a foreigner in David’s court, it is quite likely that David would have been viewed as a kinsman redeemer to Uriah—this fits society expectations: one didn’t jeopardize their own inheritance by taking in the wife of another. But David does; he risks his inheritance to serve orphans and widows. He would have been praised for it, just like the gracious host who provides for the visiting foreigner in the parable. But this honor is stolen.
Eventually, David will refuse to sacrifice the freely offered cattle of the foreigner Aruanah (אֲרַוְנָה) because it cost him nothing (2 Sam 24.24), but here he has no problem offering up the stolen lamb of the foreigner Uriah (אוּרִיָּה).
This story is powerful enough and convicting enough on its own. But I also want you to consider a particular present application and question for yourselves.
Nathan’s condemnation of David wasn’t just that he stole, it’s that he accepted praise for something he didn’t really do. When I write a blog, an article, a paper, or a sermon and pass it off as my own even though I didn’t write it, I act like David. I am taking something from someone else and passing it off as though I did the work and I paid the price. I am portraying myself as extremely sacrificial to gain honor when in fact that is not true.
Look, I understand AI is the way of the world for the present and I understand that there are ethical ways to use AI (even if I think we need to be careful). But whether for outlines or full papers (or sermons!), presenting off AI’s work as your own is plagiarism. It’s theft. Theft is bad enough, but still worse to do so while gaining applause for our hard work.
Let’s not be the man. And if we are, let’s admit it and do better. I promise you, it’s worth it.
