When the people of Jabesh Gilead heard what the Philistines had done to Saul, all their valiant men marched through the night to Beth Shan. They took down the bodies of Saul and his sons from the wall of Beth Shan and went to Jabesh, where they burned them. Then they took their bones and buried them under a tamarisk tree at Jabesh, and they fasted seven days.
1 Samuel 31:11-13 (NIV)

There is a moment at the end of every novel I read in which I slowly close the book, and sit for a moment with the story. Now that the story is complete, I can sit with it in its wholeness. I’ve completed my journey through the story, now from the destination I can sit and look back at where I’ve been. I can see the story for the first time in its entirety and reflect on the entire story for the first time.

Today we reach the end of 1 Samuel. We’ve spent nearly a month walking beside David through caves, wildernesses, disappointments, temptations, friendships, betrayals, and long years of waiting. Yet the book closes not with David’s triumph—but with Saul’s tragedy. It would seem that the author wants me to sit with the consequences before I celebrate the successor.

The story ends, not with a coronation, but with a funeral.

Everything that Samuel’s apparition had prophesied happens. Israel is routed by the Philistines. Saul’s sons are all killed in the battle. Saul, knowing that he’s defeated, famously “falls on his own sword” and commits suicide. The bodies of Saul and his sons are mutilated and hung on the walls of the city of Beth Shan in a final humiliation.

Then, in a moment of irony that is lost on most readers, Saul’s death stirs the hearts of the people of Jabesh-Gilead. In Saul’s first heroic act as King he gathers Israel to save the people of Jabesh-Gilead from a powerful local enemy names Nahash the Ammonite. It was Saul’s finest hour, the first of his reign, and the people of Jabesh-Gilead gratefully remember. They send their men on an all-night march through rough terrain to retrieve the bodies of Saul and his sons off the walls of Beth-Shan. They returned to give them a proper buriel and honor their fallen leader with a seven-day fast.

My failures can have lasting consequences—but so can my acts of courage and kindness. Decades after Saul’s character unraveled, there were still people willing to risk everything because they remembered the day he came for them when no one else would. I find it a fitting note of grace at the end of Saul’s story: even in a tragic life, God does not allow every good thing to be erased.

As I sit and meditate on the story of Saul’s reign and the rise of David I found it beautiful how the author weaves the story from beginning to end.

The book begins with a barren woman praying.
It ends with a nation mourning.

It begins with an old priest falling backward to his death.
It ends with a king falling forward onto his sword.

It begins with lost donkeys.
It ends with a lost kingdom.

It begins with God raising the humble.
It ends with the proud brought low.

But the book ends with Saul’s end. Which means the author wants me to sit with Saul’s story and his end. As I meditated it struck me that today’s chapter isn’t ultimately about death. It’s about the end of a trajectory.

Saul didn’t die on Mount Gilboa. Not really. His death began years earlier when he stopped believing that obedience was enough. Through it all, Saul had everything he needed at his disposal. He had the power, wealth, and resources. What he didn’t have was faith to trust the story God wanted to author in and through him. Instead, Saul began:

Grasping.
Managing.
Protecting.
Controlling.
Defending himself.

Fear became the operating system of Saul’s soul. Every decision afterward simply followed the direction he had already chosen. Falling on his sword was the final act in long trajectory of fear.

David’s story has been the opposite. He has lost almost everything. His home, marriage, status, and safety. Yet every wilderness experience has slowly loosened his grip on control and tightened his grip on God.

One king spent years trying to save his throne and lost it. The other spent years surrendering the throne God had promised him—and eventually received it. That’s one of the great paradoxes of Scripture. The life I clutch with a tight grip becomes brittle. The life I let go of and entrust to God becomes fruitful.

In the quiet this morning as I close the book and sit with the story, a single thread seems to run from beginning to end:

God is far more interested in forming the heart of His servants than in accelerating the fulfillment of His promises.

Hannah had to wait.
Samuel had to listen.
Saul had to choose.
David had to wander.

The wilderness was never a detour. It was the workshop.

It is as true in my life story as it was in theirs.

FYI: I’m going to be on vacation next week. We’ll start 2 Samuel on Mon July 6.

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