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“Then they cast Stephen out of the city and stoned him. And the witnesses laid down their garments at the feet of a young man named Saul… And Saul approved of his execution” (Acts 7:58, 8:1). Why does Luke, in the Book of Acts, refer to Paul as Saul? In his own letters, Paul never speaks of himself this way. Only Acts assigns this prior moniker to the apostle. And it sticks to him for a long time, well past the Damascus road conversion, flipping only in chapter 13 with an almost offhand introduction of the more famous name. There’s no reason to think this is pure Lukan invention. Jews at that time often had a name for internal affairs and a related one for Gentile interactions. “Saul” in Greek (Σαῦλος), as in English, is only one consonant away from “Paul” (Παῦλος), and both were common male names in their respective communities. Moreover, Saul/Paul himself hailed from the tribe that begat Israel’s first king of the same name, and he made no secret of that fact: “If anyone else thinks he has reason for confidence in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews” (Philippians 3:4b–5a). Paul might not have seen any need to share his tribal birth name, but Luke did. It’s too distinctive and extended a use within the book of Acts to be pure happenstance. So what, theologically speaking, is Luke up to? Let’s track the trajectories of the first king of Israel and the last apostle of Jesus, both hailing from the tribe of Benjamin, both named Saul, both standing at a turning point in the history of Israel, and see what we find. Prelude: Be Careful What You Wish ForI Samuel 8:1–22 Samuel warns Israel about its wish for a king
Acts 7:54–60, 8:1 Stephen warns Israel about its rejection of prophets All the warning signs are there from the get-go: kingship is not going to be a happy experience for the Israelites. Samuel certainly thought so, though not for exactly the right reason. He took the demand for a king personally, as if his role as prophet and judge failed to give satisfaction. God amended the insult: it’s actually dissatisfaction with the covenant. After all, a covenant has no force behind it, only a promise. The twelve tribes promise to be there for each other, but will they keep that promise? The intertribal warfare at the end of the book of Judges suggests otherwise. But more to the point, will God keep his promise to show up and defend the Israelites? Let’s face it, the divine battle tactics are weird. Marching around a city blowing trumpets. Choosing the littlest guy from the littlest clan of the little tribe. Recruiting your army from guys who lap up water like dogs. This is not military strategy. It is the considered opposite of military strategy: trusting in God alone to do the fighting for you. The Israelites don’t trust in God alone to do the fighting for them. They want a king who can conscript and enforce and threaten. Samuel gives in to the Israelites at God’s prodding, but offers the chance to renege. If a king is what you want, warns Samuel, a king is what you’ll get. Just bear in mind that a community bound by kingship instead of covenant comes at a cost. The cost is that the king will take. And take and take and take. In the end, you’ll be his slaves. Then you’ll cry out to God like you did in Egypt. You didn’t choose to become slaves in Egypt, so God saved you. But you are choosing right now to become the slaves of your king. So don’t expect God to save you from the slavery you choose for yourself. “Super! Sign us up!” is more or less how the Israelites respond. What unhappy man will get the ill-omened job of king over Israel? Fast-forward many centuries. Stephen, the first deacon, full of the Holy Spirit and of faith, goes about doing signs and wonders among the people. Many come to believe in Jesus on his account; many are extremely irritated at Stephen for this very reason. He is summoned before the council and accused of blasphemy against God and Moses. Stephen’s defense, however, has nothing to do with his own activities. His rebuttal takes the form of recollection, detailing the common history of Israel shared by himself and the council alike. The calling of Abraham, and the gift of the covenant; the betrayal of Joseph that leads to salvation for his family; slavery in Egypt and Pharaoh’s infanticidal campaign. So far, so good. But Stephen gives the first hint of where he’s going with this when he notes the initial skepticism surrounding Moses. Twice, in fact, Stephen reports the doubts of Moses’ fellow Israelites, who taunt him, “Who made you a ruler and judge over us?” despite the fact that “this man God sent as both ruler and redeemer.” Stephen goes on to list the wondrous works of God through Moses to deliver the people, their almost-instant betrayal of their Savior/ savior with the golden calf, and a prophetic comment on the later idols that would ensnare. Stephen grants, momentarily, the God-pleasing nature of David, and the temple that Solomon built, only to revoke it again with the assertion that God does not dwell in houses made by human hands. Then he wraps up his recital with a pretty harsh set of accusations. Diplomacy is evidently not Stephen’s strong suit, but then, when has a prophet ever been a good diplomat? “You stiff-necked people, uncircumcised in heart and ears, you always resist the Holy Spirit…” The council responds in the only reasonable way: they stone him to death. What unhappy man will take up Stephen’s mantle? Election: No Peering behind God’s ChoiceI Samuel 9:1–27 God elects Saul as king of Israel
Acts 9:1–9 Jesus elects Saul on the road to Damascus God may not be thrilled about Israel having a king, but he’s still running the show, and selects a king according to his own enigmatic criteria. Enter Saul, son of Kish, of the tribe of Benjamin. His CV indicates that he would be a very good choice of politician for an age of mass media. He is young. He is handsome: “There was not a man among the people of Israel more handsome than he.” Also, he’s tall. In the rather comical wording of the text, “From his shoulders upward he was taller than any of the people.” (How about from the neck down?) However, this is not a candidate who’s making the rounds on TV, so good looks only go so far. Saul is a farmer, not a warrior. He also doesn’t appear to be terribly smart. His father dispatches him to locate lost donkeys—not exactly the work you’d give to a budding genius. Saul even appears to be ignorant of the existence of seers and prophets, and is extraordinarily slow to cotton on to Samuel’s broad hints. It’s a phenomenon as old as culture to enjoy a story poking fun at the dim-witted powerful. But beyond the humor, these details drive home a theological point: the first king of Israel doesn’t get the job because he is exceptional, or talented, or powerful. He gets the job purely because God chose him. Saul embodies, in fact, the deepest truth the people of Israel learned about God: God chooses because God chooses. You can’t look behind God’s choice. You can’t come up with reasons or explanations. If you try, you’ll only end up with self-serving rationalizations. This quality of God is, in a word, frustrating. We’d all much prefer to know how to work God’s system so we can procure the results we want and stack the deck in favor of winning the divine roulette. But if we could do that, all the power and glory would go to the powerful and glorious. The good would always go to the good. The success would always go to the successful. Most of us would be left in the dust, empty-handed. God chooses by one standard only: God’s grace. God decides to be good to the not-good, give hope to the hopeless, and shower love on the unlovable. There is no grasping either Saul’s story without keeping that insight in mind. Speaking of which… We meet the later Saul just as Stephen is breathing his last. This Saul looks after the coats of the murderers, for “Saul approved of his execution.” If First Saul’s lack of qualifications is comical, Second Saul’s lack of qualifications is alarming. First Saul may be a bit of a dunce, but Second Saul is a fanatic who breathes “threats and murder” against God’s chosen one and his followers. First Saul had no practice being a warrior against the enemies of the day, the Philistines. Second Saul was an accomplished warrior against those he took to be the enemies of the day, the Christians. If you couldn’t peer behind God’s choice of Saul as king, how much less can you peer behind God’s choice of Saul as apostle! Anyway, one fine day Second Saul, like First Saul, was out and about on business. Not exactly seeking lost donkeys, unless you metaphorically assign that status to the disciples of Jesus. Then, out of nowhere, a bright light shines and blinds Paul. “Why do you persecute me?” a voice says. Paul on his knees replies, “Who are you, Lord?”—a funny question, if you think about it: the honorific suggests he already know who it is, but still hopes he might be wrong. Like First Saul, Second Saul is instructed to travel onward to meet with others who will fill him in on what comes next. At the outset, as far as their personal qualities go, Second Saul may not have had much in common with his namesake. (No record of whether the apostle was tall, or a heartthrob.) But the one essential thing both men have in common is how absolutely, unexpectedly, and irrevocably their lives get turned upside down by God’s unilateral choice. Spirit: You Will Be Turned into Another ManI Samuel 10:1–16 The Spirit of the Lord falls upon Saul
Acts 9:10–19 The Holy Spirit, baptism, and apostleship fall upon Saul To drive the point home to his reluctant charge, Samuel details to Saul three things that will happen to him—three things that will prove Samuel’s outrageous claim to have anointed Saul king of Israel is, in fact, correct. The first is that news will come of the lost donkeys being found. Whew. You were worried about them, weren’t you? The second is that “three men going up to God” (Abraham’s visitors?) will offer him a couple loaves of bread. Nice. Third, when Saul nears Philistine territory, he’ll come across a fellowship of prophets playing harp, tambourine, flute, and lyre as they prophesy. As soon as he meets them, “the Spirit of the Lord will rush upon you, and you will prophesy with them and be turned into another man.” And so it came to pass. If king is hard to buy, prophet is an even harder sell where Saul is concerned. “And when all who knew him previously saw how he prophesied with the prophets, the people said to one another, ‘What has come over the son of Kish? Is Saul also among the prophets?’” (“A prophet is not without honor, except in his hometown and among his relatives and in his own household,” Mark 6:4.) “Therefore it became a proverb, ‘Is Saul also among the prophets?’” An inconclusive rhetorical question if ever there was one. The thing is, Saul seems to have shared their doubts. When Saul’s uncle asks where, exactly, he’s been all this time, Saul cagily replies: to look for the donkeys. And, um, by the way, we ran into Samuel. And what did he have to say? Just that the donkeys had been found. The Spirit fell upon Saul, he prophesied… and all he can talk about is donkeys! Second Saul has his own disorienting encounter with the Spirit. Still in shock over the apparition of Jesus on the road to Damascus—that crucified pretender and blasphemer, who evidently does live and reign, despite everything—Paul refuses to eat and drink. He is either catatonic or in prayer, led by the hand, awaiting… something. Ananias, on the other end of the divine phone call, is about as enthusiastic about Second Saul as Samuel was about First Saul. “But Lord,” he whines, “this guy is a known perpetrator. He goes after saints. He has express permission from the big bosses to handcuff every one of your precious chosen disciples. You can’t really want him.” Ananias may have taken some faint comfort in the Lord’s reassurance that Saul is going to learn just exactly what it means to suffer for the sake of the Name. At any rate, Ananias does what he’s told, forcing out the uncomfortable term of endearment “Brother Saul”—a first lesson in enemy love. He promises the restoration of Paul’s sight and infilling with the Holy Spirit. Immediately then, before sating his hunger or thirst, Paul receives baptism, for in Acts baptism and the Holy Spirit always go hand in hand. Which also means that Paul is now on the side of his own former enemy, his ambassador and apostle. He has been turned into another man. Like it or not! Skeptics: How Can This Man Save Us?I Samuel 10:17–27, 11:1–15 Saul is acclaimed in public, wins in battle, spares his skeptics
Acts 9:19b–31, 11:19–30 Saul preaches in public, convinces his
skeptics, brings famine relief God has chosen both Sauls out of grace, the mysterious divine love that creates possibilities where no possibilities exist. As Second Saul would write much later in his career, God “gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist” (Romans 4:17). That includes calling into existence a king out of a donkey-hunter and an ambassador out of a persecutor. After a couple of false starts, Samuel finally succeeds in anointing Saul in front of the public that has been clamoring for a king. Honestly, it’s hard to tell whether Samuel is being sarcastic or not when he announces, “Do you see him whom the Lord has chosen? There is none like him among all the people.” Especially since Samuel says this when he finds Saul hiding behind the baggage instead of stepping up to his receive his realm. Samuel’s skepticism is justified. Naïve enthusiasts shout, “Long live the king!” But others are skeptical for unholy reasons. These “worthless fellows” doubt, not Saul (fair enough), but God, God’s choice, God’s king. “How can this man save us?” the worthless fellows ask. (“Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!” Luke 23:29. “Who made you a ruler and judge over us?” Acts 7:27.) Just then, some bloodthirsty Ammonites come along, offering not to raze Jabesh-gilead to the ground in exchange for getting to gouge out the right eye of all the village men. Good deal, huh? But instead of spelling disaster, this is the opportunity for donkey-hunting Saul to step up and prove his worth to the worthless. When he hears of the Ammonite threat, “the Spirit of God rushed upon Saul.” Furious, Saul summons the men throughout the whole territory of Israel to come and fight on behalf of their kin. Yes, he does back it up with a threat: the message arrives with a chunk of butchered ox, promising the same dismemberment to those who fail to defend their own. But it seems to excite rather than alarm, and word starts to spread: “Tomorrow, by the time the sun is hot, you shall have salvation.” It works. Saul and his armies wallop the Ammonites. All right eyes are preserved intact. But the bloodlust remains upon Saul’s own loyal followers. “Who is it that said, ‘Shall Saul reign over us?’ Bring the men, that we may put them to death.” A sensible king would have done just that, securing his reputation for dominance. But at this point in his career, Saul operates according to the Spirit of God. Instead of giving in, he proclaims the most gracious of edicts: “Not a man shall be put to death this day, for today the Lord has worked salvation in Israel.” On this occasion, mercy works. The victorious Israelites renew the kingdom at Gilgal, the very spot where they vowed under Joshua’s leadership to keep the covenant with God and one another and celebrated the first Passover in the promised land. And this time, when Saul is acclaimed king, it sticks. Meanwhile, far in the future, a just-baptized, just-Spirit-drenched Second Saul has a new message to proclaim. He ducks into the synagogue and announces that Jesus is the Son of God. Nobody buys it for a second. “Is not this the man…?” Yes, it is the man. Which is why everyone fears it’s the man’s trickiest trick yet. He must be a double agent pretending to proclaim Jesus precisely in order to ferret out the Jesus-proclaimers and cart them off. But Saul does such a convincing job of it that his old allies turn on him, too, plotting to kill him. The few disciples who believe in the authenticity of Saul’s transformation sneak him out through the city wall by night, lowering him down in a basket, just like Rahab did with the Israelite spies. Thereafter Saul “attempted to join the disciples,” but they still don’t believe he’s the genuine article. Barnabas intercedes, and reluctantly they accept their former persecutor as one of their own, which leads to peace and growth in the church. This includes, rather unexpectedly, a certain Roman centurion coming to faith, receiving the Holy Spirit and baptism, and thereby exploding the church into a joint fellowship of Jews and Gentiles. Now this is a real head-scratcher. How are you supposed to have fellowship with those pagans, what with their questionable table practices and appalling sexual practices, no habit of monotheism and no knowledge of the prophets? Who can help the disciples figure this one out? It would help to have someone on the inside, who nevertheless already knows a lot about the outside. Say, a Roman citizen. Extremely well educated. Conversant with pagan philosophy, combative toward pagan polytheism. Someone who can take the exquisite Roman horror of death by crucifixion and rework it into the source of ultimate redemption. Someone who has experience learning to love his enemies. Barnabas has a brainwave. He extracts Saul from Tarsus, his hometown, and brings him to Antioch, the first mixed church of Jews and Hellenists. He installs Saul as preacher, and so effective is he that the members of the congregation earn a nickname that has lasted to this day: Christians. And then, when Agabus foretells a famine in Judea, the disciples take up a collection and send the relief funds by the hands of none other than Barnabas and Saul. Evidently, salvation can indeed come through this man. Divergence: Defying a True Prophet and Exposing a False ProphetI Samuel 13:1–15 Saul departs from God for the first time
Acts 13:1–12 Paul departs from Saul for good Everything is going so suspiciously well in the reign of First Saul that an astute reader should be on guard. It’s the calm before the storm. In fact, things are so good that Samuel and the Israelites even reconcile. They actually apologize for demanding a king and beg Samuel to pray for them. Samuel pardons them, promises to pray, and assures them that as long as they turn to God with their whole hearts, even this kingship project will turn out OK, for God has already done great things for them. Marvelous, heartening words. “But if you still do wickedly,” he adds, “you shall be swept away, both you and your king.” The last warning—and futile. From this point onward, the tales of our Sauls will diverge. The Philistines are back, “thirty thousand chariots and six thousand horsemen and troops like the sand on the seashore in multitude.” Enough to make Israelite bones turn to water and knees start knocking. Morale is poor enough to begin with, but on top of everything else, Samuel is late. They can’t go to war until the prophet offers the proper sacrifices, but what if the prophet never shows? or the Philistines attack beforehand? or the army loses heart altogether in face of the enemy? Saul can’t afford to wait for Samuel any longer. He can’t afford to wait for God any longer. He has to act now. So he does the unthinkable: he offers the sacrifices himself. It’s hard now to grasp what is so unconscionable about Saul’s action. Here’s what: First, it’s a blatant act of distrust. Saul does not trust God or his holy man to show up in good time. Second, it’s preferring military might over divine might, forgetting that all of Israel’s victories have been the result of God fighting for them, not their own stratagems or strength. Third, and probably worst of all, Saul has violated the necessary barrier between priestly power and kingly power. Time out of mind, priests and princes have multiplied their power over the masses by linking arms. God insists that these powers remain uncoupled, the Levites and prophets seeing to religious matters, the judges and kings seeing to military matters. Only God can join together what he ordinarily holds asunder. Saul has usurped not only the prophetic prerogative to offer sacrifice, but also the divine prerogative to violate protocol. Saul, like any sinner, has lots of good excuses when Samuel shows up five minutes later and catches him in the act. The Philistines were coming for us! My solders were deserting me! I can’t fight without God’s blessing! I forced myself to do it even though I really didn’t want to! All Samuel can say is: you fool. You could have had the kingdom forever and ever. It’s a harsh judgment, for sure. You’re probably inclined to take Saul’s side and feel sorry for him; I do. It’s not like Saul ever asked to be king. If he’d never become king, he’d never have made these mistakes. What’s the point of getting chosen by God’s grace if you end up getting condemned by God’s judgment? Wasn’t God setting Saul up for failure, setting impossible standards that nobody could meet? And is there a point after which God won’t forgive anymore? You could make the historical case that Saul’s downfall is retrospective propaganda from Team David. But a stronger theological case is to be made that a faith premised on gracious election and steadfast love had to face up squarely to an example that seemed to defy all the comforting bromides. First Saul ends up an enemy of God, a place from which he will never return. But that’s exactly where Second Saul starts, an avowed enemy of the Christ of God. In his new job working for his old adversary, Saul leaves off his own prerogatives of power, might, and the sword to become something much more like Samuel of old, more like a prophet than a prince. Which is perhaps why Saul undergoes his name change at this point. It’s so subtle, so quiet, you could almost miss it: “Saul, who was also called Paul, [was] filled with the Holy Spirit…” From this point on, he will always be Paul, never again Saul. Luke doesn’t give any explanation of the switch, not explicitly, anyway. But the transfer takes place in the middle of a confrontation with a false prophet who also had two names. His first name: Bar-Jesus. Son of Jesus. No, not that Jesus (sorry, Da Vinci Code). But you can feel the uncanniness of a pretender sharing a name with the Name that is above every other name. The second name reveals his true colors: Elymas, which (as Luke tells us) means “magician,” “sorcerer,” or “mage” (μάγος)—like the Magi. It’s precisely when Saul challenges the false prophet/mage cloaking himself in a name almost above every other name that Saul’s own name changes to Paul. This is the name by which he will be known to the ages, and which, in a burst of evangelical modesty, means “small”—hardly matching the outsize reputation the apostle will eventually earn. Also fittingly, if a little less comfortably, the newly prophetic Paul brings down judgment on the mage who seized divine prerogative. It’s a punishment that Paul knows well: Elymas is struck blind, “for a time.” Maybe repentance and baptism returned his vision to Elymas, as it did to Paul. If so, Luke never tells us. Curses: Fathers and SonsI Samuel 14:1–46 Saul’s rash vow falls on Jonathan, whom he would not spare
Acts 13:13–49 Paul recalls Saul, David, and the Christ, whom his Father would not spare Saul is starting to spiral. Usually in such stories, the fall is terrible but swift. Not so with Saul, though. We are forced to watch the long, drawn-out process of how he comes apart at the seams. Drawn-out because, oddly enough, although Saul loses the kingship from God’s perspective, he continues to hold office for… ages. You evidently can be in office without God’s approval. (Now isn’t the time, but putting this story in dialogue with Romans 13 could yield some interesting results.) Saul in an impossible position. He has to rule God’s people without God’s help. Theoretically he could abdicate, but he still hopes for restoration. The result is that he’s badly spooked, and that jolts him into a sequence of ever-worsening decisions. Which means it’s time to introduce a favorite Old Testament disaster: the rash vow. The rashest of rash vows was sworn by Jephthah, back in Judges 11, when he promised to devote to destruction the first living thing he met after victory over the Ammonites. Inevitably, the first living thing turned out to be his daughter. Saul should’ve known better, but alas, the whole story of his life from his illicit sacrifice onward is “should’ve known better.” Hard pressed by the Philistines, Saul recklessly curses his own army, declaring that anyone who takes so much as a morsel of food before the enemy is killed will be killed himself, and by Saul’s own hand. Of course, it’s his son Jonathan who fails to hear the order because he’s off doing exactly what he’s supposed to, killing Philistines. On his triumphant return home, he refreshes himself with a taste of honey. Saul suspects violation of his command when God fails to respond to his request for guidance. Notably, Saul doesn’t suspect that it’s his own damn fault for previous sins. So he casts lots and finally figures out it’s his kid who’s done him wrong. Saul, spiraling further, demands answers from Jonathan. Jonathan, a better man than his father, replies honestly, without excuses: It was me. Here I am. I will die. Saul: Damn right you will! And so it would’ve ended, had not the troops intervened. Jonathan is the one who saved us today, they insist; Jonathan is the one who is working with God. As the Lord lives, we will not let you harm one hair on Jonathan’s head. We should hear Saul’s blessed relief that his beloved son was preserved another hour from death. Instead, Saul just gets back to work to finish the job of finishing off the Philistines. But everyone knows, now, that Saul’s word is worthless, his rule is powerless, his heart is loveless, and he has been exposed as a fraud to one and all. And yet. You can hear in this story strange and unsettling connections to another story about a Father giving up his Son to death. In the other story, it is not a reckless sacrifice on the part of the Father. And the Father does truly love and value his Son above all. But both Father and Son understand that the Son is walking headlong into a curse. In one of his letters, the Paul formerly known as Saul wrote, “Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us—for it is written, ‘Cursed is everyone who is hanged on a tree’” (Galatians 3:13). From the human perspective, what happened to Jesus was much like what King Saul intended for his son: Jonathan was condemned to death, even though he was innocent of any real crime. But Jonathan, son of Saul, was redeemed from death by the intercession of the Israelites who loved him. Not so for Jesus. Jesus was handed over to death. An unjust, reckless, stupid curse came down on Jesus’ head. Jonathan was rescued—but Jesus was not. And yet. If Jesus had been cursed and killed and left forever in the tomb, he would be just another of the countless tragedies of human history. But in Jesus’ case, his Father was not a reckless, loveless, faithless man. His Father is and was so good that his Son could walk straight into the arms of curses and death—and walk out the other side, blessed and alive. Could the Second Saul have had both these stories in mind as he composed his epistles? Luke thinks so. He records a sermon in Acts where Paul singles out by name his famous royal ancestor. Much like Stephen, Paul prefaces his evangelical exhortation with a history lesson for his fellow Jews. He reminds them of Israel’s enslavement in Egypt, forty years in the desert, taking possession of the promised land, and heroic rescues effected by judges. Then Paul mentions Samuel the prophet, at whose time the Israelites “asked for a king, and God gave them Saul the son of Kish, a man of the tribe of Benjamin, for forty years.” The next sentence begins with the quiet acknowledgement, “And when God had removed him…” Notice that this sermon is delivered after Saul has acquired his new name of Paul. A distancing between old king and new apostle has already taken place. The old king gives way to David, raised up by God because “I have found in David the son of Jesse a man after my heart, who will do all my will.” And the new apostle likewise gives way to David’s offspring: “God has brought to Israel a Savior, Jesus, as he promised.” The Sauls have parted ways in nearly every respect. But in this they still track together: they give way to someone greater, someone who reroutes the people of God in a new direction. As if to confirm that this pattern encompasses more than men who happened to be named Saul, Paul’s sermon immediately moves on to John the Baptist, who explicitly denied being the Christ and knew himself to be unworthy to untie the Christ’s sandals. We would hardly expect Paul to be thrilled that the king of his own tribe of Benjamin got displaced by David of Judah—undoubtedly there was a bit of rivalry between these last two tribes remaining after the Assyrian conquest. And if it really was just this king versus that king, we couldn’t blame him, nor could we bring ourselves to care all that much. David did better than Saul, but he had some ugly blots on his record. And let’s not even talk about David’s descendants on the throne. The reason Saul can set aside rivalry, and even rejoice in the ascendency of David, is because of the one descended from David’s line. This king is not a king like Saul, but he isn’t really a king like David, either. It wasn’t actually to David that the Lord said, “You are my Son; today I have begotten you.” And when God said, “I will give you the holy and sure blessings of David,” he had more than a temporal king in mind. Above all, the promise “you will not let your Holy One see corruption” could not possibly apply to David. As Paul points out, “For David, after he had served the purpose of God in his own generation, fell asleep and was laid with his fathers and saw corruption.” Jesus did not. Jesus was raised up. In the light of his resurrection, all the old rivalries and failures can be set aside. Jesus the king does not only rule and triumph over his enemies. He also forgives, sets free, and restores. Which might mean a twinkling of hope for old king Saul. But not quite yet. Rejection: The Kindness and Severity of GodI Samuel 15:1–35, 28:1–25 Saul’s second departure from God and God’s final rejection of Saul
Romans 11:1–36 The election, rejection, and re-election of Israel It’s Saul’s last chance. Samuel approaches him with the reminder, “The Lord sent me to anoint you king over his people Israel; now therefore listen to the words of the Lord.” This is surprising! Samuel and God alike are still willing to grant the power of the anointing. Saul may return to their good graces after all. All he has to do is what every warrior of the Lord has been required to do: after defeating the enemy (this time the Amalekites, not the Philistines), Saul must devote to destruction every last living creature among them. A slight pause here, to cope with the moral qualms this evokes in us today. Universal slaughter hardly seems like an ethical ideal for the Lord God to promote. We may not like the rationale for it, but it is nevertheless coherent: wars in those day were fought for plunder, so God is deleting all hope of gain from Israel’s military expeditions. The sole purpose of their battles is to preserve the people and the land, not to get rich or get slaves. Gruesome, but there it is. And Saul blows the opportunity. His armies put to the sword all the people—except the Amalekite king, Agag—but together with Saul they carefully inventory all the sheep, oxen, fatted calves, and lambs. The best they keep for themselves. Only the “despised and worthless” livestock receive the death sentence. In the night God informs Samuel, “I regret that I have made Saul king.” And in one of the richest ironies in a story already awash in irony, Samuel is heartbroken. He cries all night to God, pleading Saul’s case. Samuel, won over by Saul in the end! But to no avail. The next day Samuel catches up with Saul, who promptly brags about fulfilling the Lord’s commandment. Samuel inquires why, then, he can hear sheep bleating off in the distance. Saul pivots and spins a good line: Well, we kept the best animals to offer in sacrifice “to the Lord your God.” Your God, not my God. Saul spoke truer than he knew. It really isn’t his God anymore. Samuel confronts Saul with his failure to obey. Saul counters that he did obey, actually he went above and beyond by preserving the nice animals for sacrifice. To which Samuel retorts a line that would inspire prophets in centuries to come: “Has the Lord as great delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the Lord? Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to listen than the fat of rams.” Saul did not obey. Therefore, “because you have rejected the word of the Lord, he has also rejected you from being king.” And now at last it gets through to Saul. The scene that ensues is humiliating in the extreme. Saul confesses his sin. He admits to his cowardice. He begs for forgiveness. He asks for Samuel’s help. But Samuel repeats the judgment: you have rejected the word of God, so now God has rejected you. Saul even scrabbles at Samuel’s cloak and tears it, trying to get the prophet to intercede for him. But it’s over. Samuel finishes the job Saul didn’t: he hacks Agag of Amalek to pieces. “And Samuel did not see Saul again until the day of his death, but Samuel grieved over Saul.” As for the Lord, his only grief is ever making Saul king over Israel. Saul will stop at nothing to keep his kingship. Before his end comes, he’ll sink so low as to employ the medium at Endor (no relationship to the Ewoks) to contact the by-now dead Samuel for advice. There is pretty much no lower an Israelite can go than to violate the boundary between the living and the dead in this fashion. Samuel, irritable in death as in life, is furious at Saul’s intrusion into Sheol. “Why then do you ask me, since the Lord has turned from you and become your enemy? The Lord has done to you as he spoke by me, for the Lord has torn the kingdom out of your hand.” It is a strange inversion indeed that the only one to show Saul mercy anymore is the medium herself, despite the fact that Saul “cut off the mediums and necromancers from the land.” Actually, it will turn out that there can be communion between the living and the dead. Except it has to come from the one who died and yet was raised up again, and at his initiative alone. It’s no accident that Second Saul, descendent of the tribe of First Saul, is rerouted when the once-dead, now-living son of David confronts him on the road to Damascus. Second Saul did not seek out the dead. Rather, the dead one, no longer dead, came looking for Saul. And this is what opens the tiny window of hope for the First Saul. Because many, many years later, probably as his own death begins to loom on the horizon, Second Saul, better known as Paul, will contemplate the meaning of the Lord’s rejection. Exhibit A in his evidence for the triumph of election over rejection is himself: “I ask, then, has God rejected his people? By no means! For I myself am an Israelite, a descendant of Abraham, a member of the tribe of Benjamin.” The tribe of Benjamin—which has known better than any what it means to be rejected by God. Paul goes on to speak of “a remnant, chosen by grace. But if it is by grace, it is no longer on the basis of works; otherwise grace would no longer be grace.” Grace: the hardest thing, the strangest thing, the best thing. But no less hard and strange for all that. For somehow this grace means that those seeking something failed to find it. Will they fail forever? Did they stumble that they might fall? Paul responds with one of his favorite lines: μὴ γένοιτο! In common English, “Hell, no!” The stumbling is only temporary, Paul promises, to accomplish other graces in the meanwhile. Paul is thinking here especially of the failure of so many of his fellow children of Israel to believe in Jesus the Christ. He speculates that the riches poured out upon the believing Gentiles will spur them to jealousy, and eventually faith. But believer, be not proud. “For if God did not spare the natural branches, neither will he spare you. Note then the kindness and the severity of God: severity toward those who have fallen, but God’s kindness to you, provided you continue in his kindness.” Then Paul announces a great mystery: “A partial hardening has come upon Israel, until the fullness of the Gentiles has come in. And in this way all Israel will be saved.” All Israel. Including its first king? Paul continues: “As regards the gospel, they are enemies for your sake. But as regards election, they are beloved for the sake of their forefathers. For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable.” Second Saul defies the revocation of God’s favor on First Saul. Election beats rejection. But that deepest truth about God has only come to light with the death and resurrection of his Son. “God has consigned all to disobedience, that he may have mercy on all.” Hope: On the Other Side of RejectionI Samuel 16:1–23, II Samuel 1:1–27 God’s mercy toward Saul through David
Romans 5:6–11 God’s mercy toward enemies through Jesus Christ Saul’s reign continues long after he has lost God’s favor and Samuel has anointed a new king in his place: young David, whose heart God sees clearly and approves. Freshly anointed David has every reason to take out his older, stronger rival so the throne will be his alone. But something exceedingly strange happens. David respects Saul’s kingship more than God does. David will not lay a finger to harm God’s anointed. David, in fact, loves Saul. And David does not lose God’s favor by refusing to recognize Saul’s loss of God’s favor. It’s a mystery almost beyond fathoming: David is how the Lord continues to love and bless Saul in his state of rejection. Saul most assuredly does not deserve it, and not only on account of his past sins. He forgets about David at first. Then he grows suspicious of David. Then he is possessed by insane jealousy and tries to pin David to the wall with his spear. Then he offers David one of his daughters, revokes her, offers another, and gets mad when she prefers her husband to her crazy father. Before it’s all over, Saul will hunt David across the territory of Israel and beyond. Twice David will have the chance to murder his envious rival without risk; twice David will forego the opportunity and prove it to Saul afterwards as the ultimate bona fides of his faithful loyalty. Both times Saul will break down, call David “my son,” reckon him more righteous than himself. These scenes exude more pathos than just about any other in the whole of Scripture. But then Saul will revert to his campaign against the younger man, and David will keep on loving his elder all the same. The most painful part of this painful story is God’s role in it. Once David is anointed, “the Spirit of the Lord departed from Saul, and a harmful spirit from the Lord tormented him.” It’s one thing to lose God’s blessing—but to be actively afflicted? Such things should not be. Saul’s advisors suggest calling in David, a skilled musician, to play the lyre. So he does, and the music soothes the king’s tormented soul. “And whenever the harmful spirit from God was upon Saul, David took the lyre and played it with his hand. So Saul was refreshed and was well, and the harmful spirit departed from him.” God provides the means by which Saul can gain relief from God. Mercy triumphs over judgment. Not by fiat, or as a philosophical proposition or mathematical equation or speculative declaration. Out of the depths, in the blood and guts and misery of history, God loves the unlovable and pours out grace on the graceless. And nobody knows this better than the Second Saul. He is well-acquainted with rejection. It is the story of his life, just as much as it is of the First Saul. He was as unapproved, unchosen, and ungraced as it’s possible to be. And yet God looked at this enemy named Saul and said: I will approve of him anyway. I will choose him anyway. I will cover him with my grace and my love and turn Saul my enemy into Saul my friend. Just as David would not fail to respect the anointing of First Saul, so Jesus Christ would not fail to extend mercy to the Second Saul. First Saul is chosen but rejected; Second Saul is rejected but chosen. That’s how Luke brings the story of Israel full circle. It’s why he needed to tell us Paul’s original name of Saul. In Paul, the painful, ironic, tragic story of Saul the king is completed and healed. Just as Jesus is the new David, Paul is the new Saul, bringing late peace to the tormented first king of Israel. The things that went wrong with the
First Saul are put to right with the Second Saul. And yet, it’s not quite enough for the Second Saul to complete, reconcile, and heal the story of the First Saul, as he himself knows. Paul’s letters go one step further. It’s a common hermeneutical move across the New Testament to interpret Jesus in the light of David, the graced king. But our trip through I Samuel and Acts in tandem shows that we also need to interpret Jesus in the light of Saul, the cursed king. Second Saul, better known as Paul, shows us how to do it. His perception of the Christ taking a curse upon himself allows us to extend the figure even further: Jesus is not only David the elect, but also Saul the reject. Jesus is both kings in one. Paul writes, “For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will scarcely die for a righteous person—though perhaps for a good person one would dare even to die—but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” In Jesus, Paul shows us, God surpasses himself. God looks squarely at all the ungodly, sinful, rejected people: the people who cannot live by the law, even the good laws that give life; the people who cannot accept kindness and mercy, who push away helpers and friends; the people who have crossed every line and cursed the name of God and concluded they were lost forever and ever. God looks at their ultimate despair expecting ultimate rejection and declares: “I will take all this judgment and punishment and rejection into myself. I will lay it on myself in the cross. My Son is truly my chosen one, my beloved one. But my Son will become also my rejected one, my despised one. My Son will experience the worst of human experience. My Son will be lost and alone as no one has ever been. My Son will go as far down into the depths as it’s possible to go. “Then my Son will leave the sin and evil and cruelty and curses and rejection behind him. I will raise him up again. I will re-choose him. I will re-love him. I will re-grace him. And through him, I will re-choose all the unchosen people, I will re-love all the unloved people, and I will re-grace all the ungraced people.” Jesus took on the curse and death willingly at his Father’s instruction and command. And in turn, Jesus’ Father raised him up from death and washed away the curse and filled Jesus up with so much blessing that Jesus’ blessings overflow onto us and the whole world. More than that: Jesus’s blessings flow backwards into the fixed and unchangeable past. Jesus’s eternal future undoes all the curses of history. Even lost, rejected, cursed King Saul is not beyond the reach of Jesus’ blessing. That’s the gospel according to Saul and Saul.
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