Saul has been dosing himself with music from David’s lyre. Lately that medicine has been Saul’s only relief from the troubling spirit which possesses him. Today Saul’s weightiest worry is the Philistines piling up like thunderclouds on the hilltop. At reveille the Philistines send out their most impressive weapon, Goliath, who strides down toward the battle line flaunting his might. “Today I defy the ranks of Israel! Give me a man, that we may fight together,” Goliath bellows. King Saul—and all Israel—are “dismayed and greatly afraid.”

It’s not an auspicious start to the day. Those of us who suffer from even occasional depression know that just getting out of bed for another day’s fray can be the hardest battle. Being roared at by a nine-foot warrior who is wearing 125 pounds of bronze armor and carrying a spear whose point weighs fifteen pounds would probably be enough to make any of us hide under the bed, not just in it. When my Philistines arrive—disguised as overdue bills, arguments, or painful memories—I want to turn the news off, turn the tunes up, shut the bedroom door, and hide my nose in the best fiction I own. That’s my armor, my army.

Of course, that never works with Philistines, historical or existential. Somebody has to claim the authority to kick those rascally giants out of our hearts or off our calendars, to show them where our soul’s buck stops if we are to claim our God-promised abundant lives. But to win that territory back from the Goliaths who defy us, we usually need to become less defended. David shows us: Armor’s not worth the trouble. It immobilizes us, weighs us down, disables us from moving deftly toward our fears and beyond them. Simplicity, clarity, focus, and a daring trust may be the smooth stones already in our pocket.