The Harder They Fall

WHEN GIANTS STILL ROAM

There’s an old saying that’s echoed through boxing rings and locker rooms for generations:

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

But in the kingdom of God, that line isn’t just clever—it’s prophecy.

Because every time pride puffs itself up, Heaven quietly starts measuring the distance to the ground.

Our God delights in turning mismatched battles into masterpieces of grace.

He uses slings to silence swords, shepherds to shame soldiers, and worshippers to win wars.

He waits until the odds look ridiculous so nobody mistakes who really won.

Giants still roam today. They may not carry spears or wear bronze helmets, but they stand just as tall.

Some roar from news headlines, some whisper in hospital rooms, some sit across the table and say, “It’s over.”

And the devil smiles—because fear is the first step to surrender.

But this story—this field called Elah—reminds us that when fear shouts loudest, faith starts running.

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THE STALEMATE IN THE VALLEY

For forty days and forty nights the armies of Israel listened to the same nine-foot sermon.

Every morning Goliath strutted down the hill and preached defeat.

Every evening he tucked them into bed with a lullaby of fear.

He didn’t have to fight to win; he just had to talk long enough to make faith sound foolish.

That’s how giants work—fear first, fight later.

And the people of God—men who had sung about miracles and promised land victories—froze.

They forgot who they were because they forgot whose they were.

Friend, it’s possible to belong to the covenant and still be conquered by conversation.

If the enemy can make you listen long enough, he doesn’t have to lift a sword.

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THE ERRAND BOY

Then came David—teenager, shepherd, delivery boy.

He wasn’t drafted, he was dispatched: “Take this bread and cheese to your brothers.”

He shows up at the front lines with grocery bags and finds a nation paralyzed.

He hears the same insults everyone else heard—but he listens with different ears.

Where soldiers heard risk, David heard blasphemy.

Where they saw a giant, he saw an opportunity for God’s reputation.

“Is there not a cause?” he asked—one simple question that split the silence wide open.

Faith often starts with one holy question.

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THE ARMOR THAT DIDN’T FIT

King Saul, trying to be helpful, offers David his own armor.

Imagine the sight: a boy swimming inside the king’s chain mail, clanking like a kitchen drawer.

David straps it on, takes a few steps, and stops.

“I can’t go with these,” he says.

Translation: I can’t fight my battles wearing somebody else’s faith.

That line alone could preach all Sabbath morning.

So many of us are dragging through life under the weight of armor that never fit—

expectations we didn’t choose, ministries we don’t love, traditions we don’t question.

David laid it down.

Better a sling that fits than a sword that fails.

Because victory doesn’t come from style—it comes from surrender.

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THE WEAPONS OF A WORSHIPPER

He walks down to the brook and picks up five smooth stones.

Five—grace’s number.

Stones—ordinary things shaped by time and water, ready for purpose.

No polish. No shine. Just smooth and faithful.

That’s what God looks for: instruments worn by worship and weathered by obedience.

While Goliath had armor made by craftsmen, David had stones chosen by God.

And between the two, Heaven always bets on humility.

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THE TRASH TALK BEFORE THE FALL

Now the scene shifts: a giant, a shepherd, and a thousand gasping soldiers on each hill.

Goliath sneers, “Am I a dog, that you come to me with sticks?”

David answers with what may be the boldest pre-battle speech in Scripture:

“You come to me with sword and spear and javelin,

but I come to you in the name of the Lord of hosts,

the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied.”

Then, for good measure, he adds:

“This day the Lord will deliver you into my hand,

and I will strike you down and cut off your head.”

That’s not arrogance—that’s assurance.

It’s what happens when a worshipper remembers who’s actually in charge of the battlefield.

If swagger ever had a sanctified version, that was it.

Because holy confidence is not “look what I can do,” but “watch what He’s about to do.”

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FAITH RUNS, FEAR FREEZES

And then the line that still gives me chills:

“When the Philistine arose and came near to meet David, David ran quickly toward the battle line.”

He ran!

Not cautiously. Not calculatingly.

Faith doesn’t tiptoe—it charges.

That’s the secret: faith moves before it makes sense.

If you wait for the odds to shift, you’ll never throw the stone.

Sometimes obedience looks like sprinting toward a problem that everyone else is backing away from.

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