Thursday, November 23, 2017

Great Commission (Remixed)


"All authority in heaven and on earth will be given to me at some future millennial kingdom. Nevertheless, go (two-week, short term trips ought to do it) and make converts of all nations (mostly just the ones who look and think like you), teaching them to raise their hands (with all heads bowed and all eyes closed, of course), recite the sinner's prayer, and assuring them of their super-awesome afterlife. And surely I am with you always as you hunker down, buy a bunch of crap, form dubious political alliances, ignore injustices against your fellow image-bearers, and wait for the rapture."

- Said Jesus never

(Check out Matthew 28 for the actual Great Commission)

Sunday, October 22, 2017

Ears to Hear

Jesus would sometimes interject his teaching with, “if anyone has ears to hear, let them hear” (Mark 4:23 NIV). In saying this, he acknowledged that some of his followers would perhaps listen without really hearing. There is often a vast chasm between a person's capacity to hear and understand and their actual willingness to hear and understand. In John 9, Jesus rebuked a group of Pharisees who, despite their functioning eyes and keen minds, refused to see what was vividly clear to even a recently-blind man. When an “expert in the law” asked him “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus, true to form, responded with a question: “What is written in the law?” But it's Jesus' followup question, “how do you read it?” that I find most intriguing (Luke 10:25-26 NIV). The world's greatest communicator was not only interested in what was said but also what this man heard. Are we prone to hear what the Word of God is saying, I wonder, or do we like many of Jesus' 1st Century friends and foes merely listen for what we wanted him to say?

Jesus knows all too well how our selective listening works—our human propensity toward confirmation bias. And there's times where he's almost purposely elusive when responding to a disingenuous question. He seemed to even let some folks walk away with the wrong idea, if that's what they had already set out to do from the beginning. Despite what he actually said, for example, some of his listeners heard the familiar voice of a nationalist messiah who promised to lead Zion's armies to victory over her Roman oppressors. Others, who were listening without the rich Jewish history of the long-promised coming of God's kingdom rooted in their hopes and dreams, might have heard a Gnostic who was always advocating for some ethereal life in the glorious hereafter. Even today, many hear in Jesus' teachings a justification for—or at least a compatibility with—moralism, Marxism, white nationalism/nativism, consumerism/economic greed (what we often rebrand as “prosperity” or “trickle-down economics”), or militarism, as well as a myriad of other “isms” that are clearly at odds (clearly to anyone who is actually listening, that is) with the historical Jesus of Nazareth's teachings.

It's not that Jesus wants to be misunderstood or that he's just careless in how he conveys his ideas. But maybe he can't, or won't, force people to understand against their hardened will (not at this particular juncture anyway). Perhaps this is one of many dignities God bestows on his image bearers: the ability to stop up our ears, close our minds, and shut our eyes to our Creator if we so choose (the ability to “resist” the whispers of his Spirit). Naturally, God will not bypass human volition as he carries out his sweeping project to restore our desire and ability to willingly submit to our Creator via the person and work of the new man, Jesus the Christ. Since Eden, the ability to choose has always been a noticeable facet of his plan for humanity. Many of the stories Jesus told about God's kingdom were crafted in such a way as to leave the hearer with a choice—a choice to believe or to doubt, to comprehend or to confuse, to seek Truth or to run from him. I maintain that Jesus' parables are most often simple and direct. However, the parable format allows lazy or intellectually dishonest hearers to impose their alternate meanings. I want to be clear that it's ultimately not Jesus' ambiguity but our own pride, preferences, preconceptions, and sin-stricken hearts that lead us astray.

As a confirmed skeptic (who has now been won over by Jesus and his good news), I've often wondered why God didn't eliminate any opportunity for doubt or confusion. Sure we have the Scriptures, numerous miracles, compelling prophecies, and Jesus' own resurrection, but the skeptic in me always wants more. How have so many of his misguided followers managed to become crusaders, inquisitors, slave holders, advocates for apartheid, and purveyors of the alt-right? How could they possibly hear approval in the words of Christ and veer so far off course? Why have others heard nothing at all? How is it that so many of his friends and foes alike mishear or misrepresent him? Why couldn't God shout even louder, so to speak, so that everyone, even those with the hardest hearts, couldn't help but hear him? Well, one day he will. Jesus promises “there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be known or brought out into the open” (Luke 8:17 NIV). “Every knee” will eventually bow to him (Phil 2:10). But he wants us to be “hungry” and “thirsty” for him now, and we can't claim to be listening, as an act of our own volition, when at his return we have no choice but to hear. Paul explained to the Athenians how God had orchestrated human history “so that [we] would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from any one of us” (Acts 17:27 NIV). Maybe he presently speaks in a “gentle whisper” so that we will have to stop and truly listen in order to hear him (1 Kings 19:12 NIV). I like how the New Living Translation renders Luke 8:18: “ attention to how you hear,” says Jesus. “To those who listen to my teaching, more understanding will be given. But for those who are not listening, even what they think they understand will be taken away from them.” 

Friday, June 2, 2017

Traditions of Men

Jesus rebuked the Pharisees of his day for elevating their traditions above God’s word. He cited several examples of how their time-honored customs had subtly undermined, perverted, and even outright contradicted many of God’s commands. The Pharisees were, of course, deeply offended by this accusation. In their own estimation and by all outward indicators, they held God’s word in the highest regard. I think the poison that Jesus noted in the Pharisees' twisted traditions, however, often manifested without them even being aware. It’s easy enough to see the Pharisees as a group of men who simply set out to twist the word of God with their traditions, but I think this is a dangerous oversimplification of who they were (and, by extension, who we are). It’s truly astounding how self-deluded our sin-stricken human hearts can be, even effectively keeping us in the dark when it comes to our own deepest motivations and intents.
I want to be clear from the start that traditions alone aren’t the problem here. Jesus wasn’t waging a war against the human practice of making and keeping traditions (On the contrary, he utilized several existing traditions and even instituted a few of his own). I'm not with the overzealous crowd of Christians who dogmatically reject any tradition unless it’s explicitly outlined in Scripture (ultimately out sola scriptura-ing even Luther himself). That’s certainly not the drum I’m beating. There are numerous extra-biblical traditions that have been crafted by the Church with the intent of magnifying God, declaring his good news, and edifying his people. And in many cases they accomplish just that. Our Catholic and Orthodox brothers and sisters, as examples, rely heavily on tradition within their particular expressions of the Christian faith. Protestants, despite our reputation as being anti-tradition, hold fast to numerous extra-biblical traditions as well. And though tradition doesn’t carry the same weight as Scripture in our dogma, it certainly does at times in our actual practice. That’s where the problem lies. But if we can’t even distinguish between our human traditions and the word of God, we’re likely to cross this dangerous line without even realizing it.
Many Christ-followers, I think, fail to see the prevalence of identity politics and extreme nationalism, which have long found a home within the American Church (especially among evangelicals), as potentially the same sort of Scripture-stifling traditions that angered Jesus. It’s as American as apple pie, for example, for “Old Glory” and the “Old Rugged Cross” to share the same space in our church gatherings. So long have the two narratives (the story of our nation and the story of God) been made to walk together that many Christians can now no longer separate the two (and both get warped as a result). It’s easy to see how our pro-slavery, Christian ancestors blatantly misrepresented Scripture in their attempts to defend their traditions (just as the Pharisees had a mountain of proof-texts for their hypocritical nonsense), but hindsight is 20/20. It’s infinitely more difficult to see how our current Christian traditions, which inevitably intersect with notions of patriotism, individualism, economic theory, self-defense, immigration, race, gender and sexuality, healthcare, foreign policy, and environmental conservationism, are often at odds with God’s heart for kingdom loyalty, community, generosity, sacrificial non-violence, hospitality, justice and reconciliation, grace and truth, compassion, mercy, and responsible stewardship. Sociopolitical allegiances often come with deep seated traditions. If we’re not careful, these partisan values will skew the way we read Scripture, and our stubborn hearts will willingly devise all kinds of Pharisaical “explanations” for why the sacred text condones our present course.
Every church community (no matter how fresh and contemporary) will inherit, and likely create, traditions. As mentioned, this is to be expected and perfectly fine to a point. But we need to be able to properly name our traditions as such so that they don’t inappropriately find their way into the wrong category. No doubt there are some explicit biblical instructions regarding church structure and practice, but our traditions often come in just where the command leaves off. It can become understandably difficult to distinguish between the two.
The “sinner’s prayer” is a good example of a cherished, and somewhat recent, tradition that has become in many Christian communities the exclusive way in which one is ushered into the kingdom of God. I’m not saying that the common practice of leading someone in a prayer, as their first response to the Gospel, in which the new believer is encouraged to acknowledge their sin and ask for God’s forgiveness on account of Jesus’ death and resurrection is a bad thing or that it should be abandoned. The tradition is after all rooted implicitly in passages like Acts 2:21 and Romans 10:9-10. But I think we’re hard pressed to find the contemporary practice of what we now know as the “sinner’s prayer” explicitly modeled in Scripture. Let me reiterate: That doesn’t mean it’s a problem, but it probably means that it’s one of our traditions, and it should be treated accordingly. We don’t see Peter, after preaching the Gospel to the Pentecost crowd, saying “now with all heads bowed, and with every eye closed, can I get a show of hands for who would like to accept Jesus into their hearts as their personal Lord and Savior?” Likewise, Phillip, after declaring the Gospel to the Ethiopian eunuch, didn’t lead him in a prayer to “get saved.” And Paul, after preaching the Gospel to the Philippian jailer and his family, didn’t have them come to the front and repeat after him to receive Jesus.
The sinner’s prayer has risen to prominence within evangelical circles in the last few centuries and seems to initially have been adopted for the sake of well-intentioned expediency (particularly so that large crowds of people could be readily welcomed into God’s kingdom at big tent revivals). However, baptism, the new believer’s Scriptural first response to the Gospel, has been somewhat sidelined or even replaced by the rise of the sinner’s prayer. Baptism almost feels redundant within this new arrangement. We usually get around to it (Jesus commanded baptism after all), but it’s something like an afterthought, especially in many non-denominational, evangelical traditions. We sometimes have a waiting period on baptism (as if you’re buying a gun or something), maybe even with a prerequisite class before getting in the water (to be sure you understand what you’re doing, I suppose). I’m all for knowing what you’re getting into (“counting the cost” and so on), but you should have already been brought up to speed with an accurate presentation of the Gospel. If it wasn’t the invitation to be united with Christ in his death so that we may partake in his resurrection (as illustrated in baptism) then it wasn’t the Gospel we heard to begin with.
If someone insists they’re “Heaven bound” simply because they raised their hand or repeated a prayer—even though there’s no evidence they’ve been born of God, truly repented, are filled with God’s Spirit, and Jesus is now their King—then their faith is not actually in Christ and his “new creation” project but in a human tradition. Traditions are best used to point us to God, to magnify Christ in our lives and in others. Only a fool would put their faith in a human tradition, expecting it to act as a golden ticket, lucky charm, or a magical incantation, as if it could undo or supersede the word of God. That’s the backwards thinking of the self-deceived men who conspired to murder the Author of Life.
It’s difficult to really even know how many human traditions we each, and collectively, subscribe to. As I’ve suggested, many of our human traditions are intertwined with Scriptural traditions (i.e. the specifics of how we observe baptism and the Lord’s Supper, organize our Family gatherings, carry out communal worship, and structure church leadership). I think there’s room in the diverse body of Christ for our various distinct traditions (so long as our traditions know their place). When our human traditions become divisive or elevated above God’s word, we've gone too far.
We’re following dangerously in the Pharisees’ footsteps, then, when our preferred traditions become dogma. Many Christians take dogmatic stances on everything from teaching styles to carpet colors (growing up in the church, I feel like I’ve heard it all, every arbitrary position declared with the same zealous conviction as Stephen the Martyr). It’s perfectly normal to have opinions, but recognize that many of our subjective preferences are simply rooted in human traditions and not Scripture.
The main objective of this post is to encourage the reader to faithfully examine all dearly held human traditions. We must be ready to reject—with extreme prejudice—any traditions that undermine or contradict the commands of Christ (or he simply isn’t our King). It’s shocking how many of our political and religious traditions attempt to render Jesus’ commands to love our enemies, care for the poor, and take up our cross (as only a few examples) completely meaningless.
Our next step is to critically examine the traditions we hold to that don’t directly oppose the word of God (This can be the more difficult task of the two). Are these traditions ultimately helpful in achieving what they’re designed to accomplish (In other words, do they draw us and others closer or further away from Jesus)? Is there perhaps a better more effective way to pursue the same goal? Has our tradition in its current form outlived its usefulness? In this category, the conversation revolves around how helpful or unhelpful a given tradition is rather than declaring its inherent “wrongness” or “rightness.” Cross-cultural ministers of the Gospel are often more attune to this important process (with perhaps a clearer vantage point of typical American syncretism) as they seek to plant a pure seed in a foreign context. I’ve raised some of these questions elsewhere regarding the widely accepted building-centric nature of our gatherings. These are hard questions that we should have the courage to passionately discuss in Spirit-filled community (with grace and humility). If our goal is truly to glorify God by sharing the good news of Jesus (and not simply to maintain our own preferences) then our traditions should readily bend to that aim. None of our human traditions should be beyond the possibility of the chopping block. And if we feel that they are, then we know for sure that our traditions have become idols to us.

You have let go of the commands of God and are holding on to human traditions. Thus you nullify the word of God by your tradition” —Jesus (from Mark 7:8, 13a)

Friday, May 26, 2017

Winner Takes All


I've heard people cite Jesus' instruction to "render unto Caesar what is Caesar's" as an example of Christ delineating between the secular and the sacred. The popular American ideology that springs from this divides our lives into two categories: God is only after "spiritual things" like my saved soul, sincere heart, regular Scripture reading, solemn meditation/prayer, charity, and church attendance, we often think. He is not concerned—and neither should clergy be, if they know what's good for them—with 90% of my finances, my political outlook, and most everything else that falls within the sweeping "practical" or "secular things" category.

I don't think this is what Christ was saying at all when he held up the Roman denarius with Caesar's image imprinted upon it (Matthew 22). This is, however, what the Herodians, the Gentiles, and other earthly minded passers by would hear (Jesus' words were often multifaceted and intentionally layered). "This man is harmless," they'd think. Those attempting to ferret out Jesus' politics, would likely conclude, "He is something of a Gnostic who cares only for the unseen world." To Jesus' Jewish audience, however, they would instantly recall the "Imago Dei," how God has made humanity in his image. Jesus is saying that Caesar, shortsighted as he is, can have the metal with his imprint. God, however, lays claim to the person, body and soul. This should not be seen as a dividing of the spoils between God and Caesar. Any fool knows that if you get the man—his body, his mind, his heart, his soul, his ambitions and dreams, everything he is—you get everything else too. There is no aspect of life, of art, conflict, politics, economics, human sexuality, race, etc. that will not be affected (or "redeemed," to use biblical vernacular) by a reborn kingdom citizen.

Friday, May 5, 2017

Counted Worthy of Suffering


Many of my brothers and sisters have justified our dubious political alliances as unfortunate “necessities.” “We must use political power,” we say, “to fight the rise of religious persecution so that we can get on with the important business of declaring the Gospel.” But we forget that the Gospel is most powerfully demonstrated in our suffering, through our patient endurance, when we refuse to strike back or avenge ourselves, as we relinquish our rights, and instead say “Father forgive them; they don’t know what they’re doing” (“the victory of the cross will be implemented through the means of the cross,” explains N.T. Wright). We can’t accomplish our calling by seeking to evade it, and we can't expect to retaliate against our cultural and political adversaries and then afterwards effectively share with them a message of grace and forgiveness. A Gospel declaration without a clear Gospel demonstration always rings hollow to the hearer.
The current sociopolitical climate is characterized by fear, bitterness, and a reckless quest for vengeance that is dressed as righteous indignation. It has all the polarizing tribal “us” and “them” hallmarks of a genocidal civil war in the making. It seems the American branch of the “royal priesthood” would benefit from a reminder of our calling to be peace-makers, ministers of reconciliation, and faithful ambassadors of his cross and kingdom. Perhaps we could use a hearty refresher on the theology of suffering (what much of our family around the world lives so well). Lest we forget the counterintuitive genius of God, who bested Pilate, Herod, Caesar, and the unseen rulers behind them, disarming and subjecting them all to public shame with a bloodied Galilean who willingly hung naked on a cross (Colossians 2:15). And the ancient world was "turned upside down," not by political prowess or military might, but by the power of his Gospel as beautifully displayed in the blood-soaked Colosseum of Rome where an unstoppable Spirit-filled army of his offspring said in word and deed "I no longer live, but Christ lives in me." We don't seek out suffering, but it will certainly find us (John 15:18-21). And when it does, we mustn't compromise the Gospel which we claim to represent in our efforts to escape (no matter how good our intentions may be). To paraphrase Wright: Our suffering is not an unfortunate side effect of following Christ; it is the primary means by which he conveys his good news to a broken world.

Now my soul is troubled, and what shall I say? ‘Father, save me from this hour’? No, it was for this very reason I came to this hour. Father, glorify your name!” - John 12:27-28a

Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” - Mark 8:34b

The apostles left the Sanhedrin, rejoicing because they had been counted worthy of suffering disgrace for the Name.” - Acts 5:41

Now I rejoice in what I am suffering for you, and I fill up in my flesh what is still lacking in regard to Christ’s afflictions, for the sake of his body, which is the church. I have become its servant by the commission God gave me to present to you the word of God in its fullness—the mystery that has been kept hidden for ages and generations, but is now disclosed to the Lord’s people. To them God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery,

which is Christ in you, the hope of glory.” - Colossians 1:24-27

Thursday, April 27, 2017

Stacking Stones


After God miraculously stopped up the Jordan River so his people could at long last enter their promised land, he commanded Joshua to collect twelve stones from the temporarily-exposed riverbed. These stones, which represented the twelve tribes of Israel, would be stacked into a monument on the other side. Most of the Israelites who passed through the Jordan were born in the wilderness (You probably remember how their parents were barred from the land due to rebellion and unbelief). Second generation Israelites had only heard the stories of how God had dramatically rescued them from bondage in Egypt. So this became something like their very own Red Sea crossing. In the years to come, they could return to this location to look at the memorial and remember God’s provision. Their future children could run their fingers along the smooth stones taken from the floor of the Jordan and ask what it was like to see God roll the water back like a scroll. God knows the fickleness of human memory. He knows how easily we forget and how our hearts inevitably wander. The truth is that faith is unavoidably tied to memory, and sometimes our memory needs a little help.

I’m very sympathetic to honest skeptics (I’ve written elsewhere about my own perpetual journey through doubt). But when it comes to this sort of doubt, the kind that predictably emerges from our own forgetfulness, we have only ourselves to blame. If we’ve experienced God’s hand in our lives at some point, yet failed to document his faithfulness for future reference, then we’ve recklessly squandered his revelation. We’ve essentially been lazy with his grace.

I keep a journal, what I call my “faith book,” that acts as one of my more meaningful stacks of stones. It has something like a dozen entries. Only what I consider to be the most remarkable events make it in. When my memory fades, as it often does, I flip through this little book. It’s helpful to have my own voice, a younger me with a closer vantage point to the actual event, always ready to rebuke my unbelief. What was once clearly “miraculous” to us can sadly become merely “coincidental” if we fail to leave a record when everything is still fresh in our minds.

One of the stones in my “faith book” was given to me on December 6th, 2012. I was washing dishes on a Thursday afternoon (I know this because I wrote it down) while my one-year-old daughter took her daily nap. I had been volunteering with InterVarsity Christian Fellowship on a local college campus, and I had the opportunity to attend their upcoming mission conference in Saint Luis (Urbana is a massive international event that only takes place every three years). I couldn’t afford the travel expenses, though, so I would need to raise the funds if I was going to be able to make it. I sent out letters to my friends and family telling them about the exciting opportunity and inviting them to consider partnering with me financially. I put together a website with updates about my preparation for the conference and showed examples of the custom portraits that I was offering to sponsors (I was pretty sure the portraits would create some interest since I had worked as a professional artist in the past).

With only a few weeks until the conference, and despite my best efforts, I hadn’t raised a dime. I had been unsuccessfully looking for work, as well, and my wife was expressing serious doubts about the trip. I stood at my sink that Thursday with a sense of total defeat. Had God actually wanted me to attend this conference, I wondered? It had seemed so clear that he did. Did he care that I was spiraling down into a dark place? Was he even there (yeah, it was a pretty bleak day)?

Try me,” is what I heard, “see if I can’t provide.”

It wasn't audible. The best way I can describe it is as a familiar voice in my head that I can clearly distinguish from my own. I recognized it as him (Being a skeptic by nature, I fully realize that this explanation is weak at best, but it's the only one I have). He was inviting me to ask anything of him. Now I'm familiar with the Scripture that warns us not to put God to the test, but I tell you he seemed to be giving me a blank check. I've never had an offer like this from him before, and I can't say that I've ever had it since. With a heart still lingering in unbelief, I said, “it would really encourage me if I could get $50 toward my trip.”

Shortly after, my daughter woke up, and I took her for our regular walk around the apartment complex. We stopped to pick up the mail on our way back. My heart must have stopped when I pulled a $50 check out of an envelope addressed to me. The person who sent it, someone I hadn't even told about the mission conference, wrote a note along with their contribution apologizing for the “small amount.” Tears came to my eyes at the thought of God's grace. He doesn't owe me anything—certainly not another proof of his love.

I realize that the letter was obviously mailed before I made my specific request, and, of course, there was a human being who wrote the check and put it in the mail (More often than not, this is his way). But to this day, I'm absolutely convinced that any amount I had asked for would have been waiting for me in that envelope. The rest of my needed funds came in the last few weeks before my departure. The money was never an issue.

Christians tend to romanticize an imagined sort of spontaneous faith that doesn’t require any maintenance or reinforcement. But there’s a practical side to sustained faith that looks less like walking through a miraculously parted river (which, don’t get me wrong, is awesome when it happens) and more like humbly toting around heavy stones and then taking the time to stack them into monuments after the river has resumed its course. Genuine faith, the kind that’s useful in the real world, is typically built on the less flashy pastime of simply leaving a record for yourself and others. I'm certainly thankful to the writers of Scripture, who amidst shipwrecks, beatings, imprisonment, and exile took the time to leave us monuments. As a result, we now all share their Spirit-breathed stack of stones. So make time to properly document God’s handiwork in your own life. Take time to stack some stones.

I will remember the deeds of the LORD; yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago. I will consider all your works and meditate on all your mighty deeds. Your ways, God, are holy. What god is as great as our God? You are the God who performs miracles; you display your power among the peoples.” —Psalm 77:11-14 

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Requiem for a King


Saul, Israel’s notorious first king, is usually remembered for his role as the “bad guy” in King David’s epic story. He of course tried countless times to snuff out the shepherd boy who God had appointed to replace him. But people often forget that before he became the villain, he too was chosen by God (1 Samuel 10:24). His is a tragic story of a sometimes great leader with enormous potential who was ultimately overcome by his own insecurities, doubts, and fears.
Saul was tall, dark, and handsome (1 Samuel 9:2). He was every inch the picture of a king. He was also a fierce warrior with numerous military exploits to his name. God used him mightily to deliver the people of Israel from foreign oppressors. And to his credit, Saul had the courage to show up for his final battle, even knowing in advance that it would certainly end in his defeat and death.
From early on, Saul was unsure of himself (1 Samuel 9:21, 10:22). He had a less-than-accurate, understated perspective of who he was, who God had made him to be. When Samuel told him he would be king, for example, Saul insisted that the prophet had the wrong guy, that he was a nobody, and that “[his] family [was] the least important of all the families” in his small tribe (even though the text specifically says his father, Kish, was “wealthy” and “influential” – 1 Samuel 9:1, 21 NLT).
God fully equipped King Saul with his Spirit, gave him a “new heart,” and changed him into a “different person” (1 Samuel 10:6, 9). He had everything he needed to succeed, but time and time again he kept reverting back to the insecure guy who once hid among the luggage, frequently preoccupied with what people might think of him. He “felt compelled” to break God’s command when things seemed to be unraveling (1 Samuel 13:12). He was “afraid of the people” and sometimes allowed himself to be carried along with the prevailing streams of public opinion rather than holding fast to God’s instruction (1 Samuel 15:24). “Although you may think little of yourself,” said Samuel in his final rebuke, “are you not the leader of the tribes of Israel?” (1 Samuel 15:17).
Eventually, God revoked his life-giving Spirit, and Saul was overcome with depression and fear (1 Samuel 16:14). He spiraled down into a place of total darkness and basically lost his mind. At perhaps his lowest, he ordered the murder of 85 innocent priests and their families in a desperate effort to retain control of a kingdom that God had already given to another. He finally died on the battlefield, hopeless and alone, his enemies closing in around him, and left with the crushing knowledge that his three sons had been cut down.
Samuel was so deeply moved,” following God's rejection of Saul, “that he cried out to the LORD all night” (1Samuel 15:10-11). After delivering God’s message of judgment to the wayward king, “Samuel never went to meet with Saul again, but he mourned constantly for him” (1 Samuel 15:35). Samuel’s gut-wrenching response to Saul’s fall is very sobering, I think. Without it, we might be tempted to breeze right past Saul’s story on our way to King David. He can easily become a one-dimensional villain in our minds, a footnote in the narrative, simply a faceless antagonist standing between David and the throne. But if we deny Saul his humanity—his initial potential and the nature of his brokenness—we run the risk of missing his costly warning.
Saul’s low opinion of himself wasn’t a sign of humility. It wasn’t a virtue. It was rooted in his unbelief and maintained by his failure to fully grasp that God had chosen him, empowered him, and assigned him a task. Saul didn’t wear the crown because he was great. He wore the crown because God is great, and he ultimately lost it because he couldn’t connect the dots. It wasn't that he thought too little of himself. On the contrary, he thought too much of himself (or too often of himself). Saul’s fixation on his own inadequacies (that he wasn’t good enough, that he’d eventually be found out, that he’d lose it all to someone better) and his resulting jealousy and paranoia was evidence that his hope wasn't in God. His hope was in himself. His fears, which sprang from his self-reliance, became self-fulfilling prophecies. In the end, Saul fell on his own sword.

“A gazelle lies slain on your heights, Israel. How the mighty have fallen! Daughters of Israel, weep for Saul... How the mighty have fallen”

From the “Lament of the Bow,” a funeral song composed by King David, recorded in 2 Samuel 1