Curt Hinkle

The Temple: God’s Dwelling Place Among His People

When we think of the Temple in Jerusalem, it’s easy to imagine it as just another impressive ancient building with ornate stonework, golden decorations, and sacred rituals. Most cultures in the ancient Near East had temples. From Egypt to Mesopotamia, from Canaanite shrines to Babylonian ziggurats, temples were everywhere. They were designed to house the presence of the gods, to be places where heaven and earth touched.

Israel’s Temple was different.

From Tabernacle to Temple

The Temple wasn’t Israel’s first “house of God.” In the wilderness, God instructed Moses to build the tabernacle (Exodus 25–31). This portable sanctuary, crafted with careful instructions and exact measurements, was the meeting place between God and His people. Its very design taught theology: the Holy of Holies symbolized God’s throne room, the ark His footstool, and the altar His provision for forgiveness.

And behind it all was the Biblical covenant refrain: “I will take you as my own people, and I will be your God” (Exodus 6:7). The tabernacle was God’s visible way of saying, “I’m not a distant deity. I dwell with you, because you are mine.”

When Israel settled in the land, King David longed for a permanent place where God’s presence would rest. As he looked out from his cedar palace in Jerusalem, he was struck that the ark of the covenant still dwelled in a tent (2 Samuel 7:1-2). His desire was honorable – he wanted to build a house worthy of Yahweh.

But God said no.

Why David Was Not the Builder

God’s response to David was layered. First, He reminded David that He had never asked for a house – He was the One who had always been on the move with His people. Second, God turned David’s request upside down: instead of David building God a house, God promised to build David a “house” – a dynasty through which His kingdom would be established forever (2 Samuel 7).

Upside down. Another Biblical theme.

Another reason, Scripture notes, is that David was a man of war, his hands stained with blood (1 Chronicles 28:3). If they were to have a temple, God wanted it to be built by a man of peace – Solomon. But even more, God wanted to remind Israel: “I am the One who builds. I am the One who establishes.“

Temples Then and Temples Now

On the surface, Solomon’s Temple resembled other temples of its time: a sacred inner chamber, priestly rituals, sacrifices, and an emphasis on order and beauty.

But the distinction was profound. Pagan temples were built to contain an image of the pagan god with a carved idol that embodied the deity’s “presence.” In contrast, Israel’s Temple was built for the presence of the living God Himself. No idol sat in the Holy of Holies – only the ark of the covenant, a symbol of God’s throne. And when Solomon dedicated the Temple, God’s glory, in a theophany, filled the house like a cloud (1 Kings 8:10–11). Yahweh Himself took up residence.

Temple Theology 101

The Temple stood as more than an architectural marvel. It declared foundational truths about God and His kingdom:

God dwells with His people. The Temple embodied the covenant promise: “I will be your God, and you will be My people.”
God is holy. Access to His presence was carefully ordered, with layers of increasing sanctity leading to the Holy of Holies.
God provides atonement. Sacrifices reminded Israel that sin separates humanity from God, and blood was necessary for forgiveness.
God reigns as King. The Temple was His throne room in Jerusalem, reminding Israel they were His covenant people under His rule.

The Temple wasn’t just a religious building – it was a kingdom declaration.

The Greater Temple: Jesus Christ

Yet the Temple was never the ultimate goal. It was a shadow pointing forward to something greater. When Jesus arrived, He referred to Himself as the true Temple: “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (John 2:19). In Him, God’s presence didn’t merely dwell in stone walls, but it walked among us in flesh and blood. The Word became flesh and tabernacled among us (John 1:1`4, AMPC).

Paul captures this beautifully in Colossians 1:15: “The Son is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation.” Unlike the pagan temples with their carved images, Jesus Himself is the true image of God. He is not a symbol but the reality – God’s presence embodied fully.

And through Him, the covenant refrain takes on its deepest meaning: because of Jesus, God can say to Jew and Gentile alike, “I will be your God, and you will be My people” (2 Corinthians 6:16).

Dwelling with God Forever

From tabernacle to Temple to Christ, the story is one of God’s presence with His people. What began as a tent in the wilderness finds its completion not in stone, but in a Person – and ultimately, in a city where God Himself will dwell with humanity forever: “God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.” (Revelation 21:3).

The Temple reminds us that God’s desire has always been to take up residence with His people. And in Jesus, that desire has been fulfilled in ways far greater than David or Solomon ever imagined.

Kingdom Divided: Good Kings, Bad Kings, and the Road to Exile

When we last left the story of God’s kingdom people, David had passed the crown to his son Solomon. David’s reign was far from perfect, but he was remembered as “a man after God’s own heart.” Solomon, with his legendary wisdom and his building of the temple, seemed poised to continue that legacy. Yet the seeds of division were already being sown.

Solomon loved the Lord (1 Kings 3:3), but he also loved foreign wives and their gods (1 Kings 11). His compromises fractured the nation spiritually, and after his death, the kingdom literally split in two: Israel in the north and Judah in the south (1 Kings 12). From this point forward, the biblical story of the monarchy becomes a tale of two nations, each with its own kings, prophets, triumphs, and failures.

Two Thrones, Two Paths

The northern kingdom of Israel had nineteen kings in total, beginning with Jeroboam I. Not a single one is described in Scripture as faithful to the Lord. Jeroboam set up golden calves so the people wouldn’t go to Jerusalem to worship (1 Kings 12:28–30), and every king after him walked in his idolatrous footsteps. Though some were politically successful or militarily strong, spiritually the nation was on a steady downward slope.

Judah, on the other hand, had twenty kings. Most were unfaithful, but a handful are remembered as “good” – not because they were flawless, but because they sought the Lord and led reforms. Kings like Asa (2 Chronicles 14), Jehoshaphat (2 Chronicles 17), Hezekiah (2 Kings 18), and Josiah (2 Kings 23) stand out as bright lights in a darkening landscape. They tore down idols, reinstituted temple worship, and called the people back to covenant faithfulness.

Still, even the “good” kings were inconsistent. Joash started well under the guidance of the priest Jehoiada, but later abandoned the Lord (2 Chronicles 24). Amaziah “did what was right in the eyes of the Lord, but not wholeheartedly” (2 Chronicles 25). Uzziah was faithful for most of his reign but became proud and overstepped his authority in the temple (2 Chronicles 26). The chronicler doesn’t whitewash the record; he shows us leaders who were mixed bags – a bit like us?

The Prophetic Warnings

Throughout these centuries, God did not leave His people without a voice. Prophets like Elijah and Elisha, Amos, Hosea, Isaiah, Micah, and Jeremiah spoke truth to kings and nations. They confronted idolatry, called out injustice, and reminded the people that covenant blessings were tied to covenant faithfulness (Deuteronomy 28).

But most of the time, the prophets were ignored – or worse, persecuted. Think of Elijah standing alone on Mount Carmel, calling Israel to choose between the Lord and Baal (1 Kings 18). Think of Jeremiah weeping as his warnings fell on deaf ears (Jeremiah 9). Again and again, the prophets said: Return to the Lord, or exile is coming.

Patterns of Faithfulness and Rebellion

Reading through 1 and 2 Kings or 2 Chronicles, we see a pattern emerge. A king rises to power. If he does evil, the nation slides further into idolatry. If he does good, there’s often a brief reprieve, a season of reform, but it rarely lasts. With the next generation, the pendulum swings back toward rebellion.

The northern kingdom never once turned the tide. Every king “did evil in the sight of the Lord.” After centuries of warning, God allowed Assyria to conquer Israel in 722 BC (2 Kings 17). The ten northern tribes were scattered, never to return in the same form.

Judah limped along for another 135 years. Good kings gave the nation moments of hope, but the general trend was downward. Finally, under the weight of idolatry, injustice, and stubborn rebellion, God allowed Babylon to destroy Jerusalem in 586 BC (2 Kings 25). The temple was burned, the walls torn down, and the people carried into exile.

Why This Matters

It’s tempting to read this history as ancient political drama, but I think Scripture invites us to see something deeper. The story of Israel and Judah is the story of human hearts. Left to ourselves, we tend to drift toward idolatry. We start well and falter. We follow God for a season but slip back into self-reliance, pride, or compromise.

The kings of Israel and Judah remind us that leadership matters, but more importantly, they remind us of our need for the greater King. David pointed toward Him (2 Samuel 7:12–16). Solomon’s wisdom hinted at Him (Matthew 12:42). The prophets longed for Him (Isaiah 9:6–7). And though the line of kings failed (which, remember, the people asked for), God promised a Son of David who would reign forever in justice and righteousness (Jeremiah 23:5–6). That King is Jesus.

Living in the Tension

So what do we do with this mixed record of good and bad kings? Perhaps we’re meant to sit in the tension. To acknowledge both the warnings and the hope. The warnings show us the cost of disobedience: exile, loss, brokenness. The hope points us to the faithfulness of God, who never abandons His people even in their rebellion (Lamentations 3:22–23).

The exile was not the end of the story. God brought His people back (see Ezra and Nehemiah), rebuilt Jerusalem, and in the fullness of time, sent His Son (Galatians 4:4-5). The line of David was never truly broken; it was fulfilled in Christ.

As we reflect on the divided kingdom, maybe a takeaway is this: our faithfulness wavers, but God’s faithfulness never does…

If we are faithless, he always remains faithful. He cannot deny his own nature. (2 Timothy 2:13, Phillips).

We don’t need another human king to save us. We already have One who has conquered sin and death, who reigns forever, and who invites us to live as citizens of His unshakable kingdom (Hebrews 12:28).

David: A Shepherd, A King, A Foreshadow of Christ

In the previous post, we discussed what happened when the people rejected God and asked Him to “Appoint a king to lead us, such as all the other nations have” (1 Sam. 8:5). They got Saul, the tall, farmer-turned-king, who rallied Israel’s tribes against their enemies and shone with early promise. But pride, fear, and disobedience consumed him, and the once-chosen ruler fell by his own sword on Mount Gilboa. Then came David.

In Saul, God gave the Israelites what they clamored for. With David He gave them what they needed.

David’s story didn’t begin in a palace or on the battlefield but in the pastures outside Bethlehem. The youngest son of Jesse, he was given the lowly work of tending sheep. Alone under the stars, he learned to sing psalms of worship and to trust God’s presence. He also learned courage, protecting his flock from wild animals – a courage that would one day defend Israel itself.

After Saul’s demise, the prophet Samuel was sent to Jesse’s house to anoint a new king. Jesse presented his older sons, but God whispered, “The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7). Finally, David was called in from the fields, and, to everyone’s surprise, was anointed by Samuel as the successor-king. God has a habit of raising up the overlooked.

At first David’s service was small. He played the harp in Saul’s court to soothe the troubled king. But then came the defining moment against the Philistine giant, Goliath. Armed with only a sling, five smooth stones, and faith, David declared, “The battle is the Lord’s” (1 Samuel 17:47). One stone was enough. The shepherd boy became a hero.

David’s fame sparked Saul’s jealousy. The people sang, “Saul has slain his thousands, and David his tens of thousands” (1 Samuel 18:7). Consumed with envy, Saul pursued David. Years of exile followed, with David hiding in caves, leading outcasts, and refusing to kill Saul when given the chance. At times, David leaned on cunning or fear instead of faith, even pretending madness before foreign kings (1 Samuel 21:13). Brave and trusting, and, yes, deeply human.

When Saul fell in battle, David grieved. He mourned Saul and his son Jonathan, his dearest friend. Soon, the tribe of Judah anointed him king, and after years of conflict, all Israel followed. He captured Jerusalem, made it his capital, and brought the Ark of the Covenant into the city with rejoicing. Then came God’s promise through the prophet Nathan: “Your house and your kingdom will endure forever before me; your throne will be established forever” (2 Samuel 7:16). This “Davidic covenant” became the heartbeat of Israel’s hope.

But David’s reign was far from spotless. One evening, while others were at war, David lingered in Jerusalem. From his rooftop, he saw Bathsheba bathing. He summoned her, slept with her, and when she became pregnant, arranged the death of her husband Uriah to cover it (2 Samuel 11). It was an abuse of power. Nathan confronted him, and David confessed. Out of that brokenness came Psalm 51: “Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me” (Psalm 51:10).

In his later years, David faltered again. He ordered a census, placing confidence in numbers rather than God. A plague followed, another reminder that Israel’s security rested in Yahweh, not its king. As his death approached, palace intrigue swirled. One son, Adonijah, tried to seize the throne. But David named Solomon – Bathsheba’s son – as his rightful heir. On his deathbed, he charged Solomon: “Walk in obedience to him, and keep his decrees and commands… do this so that you may prosper in all you do” (1 Kings 2:3). After forty years of reign, David died and was buried in Jerusalem.

So how do we remember him? Scripture calls him “a man after God’s own heart” (Acts 13:22), yet his sins were grievous. He was faithful yet flawed, victorious yet vulnerable. His life shows both the heights of devotion and the depths of failure. But more importantly, it shows God’s faithfulness.

David’s story always pointed forward. His psalms give prophetic glimpses of Christ. Psalm 110 speaks of a king-priest greater than David. The angel’s announcement to Mary echoed God’s covenant: “The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign… his kingdom will never end” (Luke 1:32-33).

David’s reign ended in the grave. But the Son of David rose from the grave. Where David’s failures brought brokenness, Jesus’ obedience brought salvation. Where David’s kingdom crumbled, Jesus’ kingdom stands forever. David was a shepherd-king whose songs still teach us to pray. Jesus is the Good Shepherd, the King of kings, who answers those prayers with life.

David’s story, warts and all, is good news for us. If God’s grace could work through someone like David – flawed, repentant, forgiven – then there is hope* for us too. His life reminds us that no earthly king can save us. Only the Son of David can.

* I wrote this blog post on August 27, 2025, the day of yet another school shooting, this time at Annunciation Catholic School in Minneapolis. The school’s theme for the year is one of hope: “A Future Filled with HOPE!” A website message to the Annunciation family was posted by the principal and pastor with the closing salutation, “In partnership, in community, in Christ” – HOPE!

They got what they asked for…

I have been working my way through The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William Shirer. He was present in Berlin in the 1930s as Hitler and the National Socialist German Workers’ Party – also known as the Nazi Party – came to power. Drawing from his front row seat before, during, and after the war, Shirer produced an extraordinary book with a compelling perspective.

In the aftermath of World War I, Germany was reeling from humiliation, poverty, and shattered national pride. The German people looked for someone who could restore strength and dignity to the nation. The church, rather than pointing people back to Christ, too often fused faith with nationalism. Sermons echoed patriotic rhetoric, and pulpits offered blessing to political dreams of renewal. As Hitler rose to power, promising destiny and revival, his message sounded strangely familiar to ears already tuned to hear the gospel of Germany first.

Soon, the German Christian (Deutsche Christen) movement emerged, eager to baptize Nazi ideology in religious language. They recast Jesus as an Aryan figure, stripped down the Old Testament, and pledged allegiance to Hitler as though he were God’s chosen deliverer. What began as a longing for stability and identity ended with the church welcoming a counterfeit messiah. In the end, they received exactly what they had asked for—a leader in their own image, not God’s.

Israel faced a similar temptation centuries earlier. As we’ve discussed earlier, the people grew restless under God’s rule through prophets and judges (1 Samuel 8). Looking at the surrounding nations, they began to clamor for a king:

“Appoint a king to lead us, such as all the other nations have” (1 Sam. 8:5).

Despite Samuel’s warnings that a king would draft their sons for war, take their daughters into service, and claim their fields and flocks, the people insisted. They were convinced that security, stability, and identity could be found in a strong human ruler rather than in the unseen reign of Yahweh.

God’s response was telling. He instructed Samuel, “It is not you they have rejected, but they have rejected me as their king” (1 Sam. 8:7).

Still, God allowed them their request. It is a sobering reminder that sometimes God’s greatest judgment is letting people have what they want. When desires are rooted in fear, pride, or misplaced trust, they can lead straight into bondage. Israel wanted a king – and God gave them one.

Enter Saul, the tall, handsome Benjamite who looked the part of a king. By every outward measure, he embodied the people’s hopes: commanding presence, military promise, and a figure who could rally the nation. At first, Saul seemed a fitting answer. He led Israel to victories over their enemies and united the tribes under his leadership. Yet beneath the surface lay cracks that would soon split wide open.

Saul’s heart was not fully aligned with God’s, and his reign became a tragic case study in the dangers of getting exactly what you ask for.

Saul’s downward spiral began with impatience. When Samuel was delayed in arriving to offer the burnt offering before battle, Saul took matters into his own hands, performing the priestly role himself (1 Samuel 13). This was more than a small slip; it revealed a pattern of self-reliance and disregard for God’s order. Samuel confronted him: “You have not kept the command the Lord your God gave you; if you had, he would have established your kingdom over Israel for all time. But now your kingdom will not endure” (1 Sam. 13:13–14).

Already, the cracks in Israel’s first king were showing.

Things worsened when Saul spared, against God’s command, King Agag and his livestock, justifying his disobedience as an opportunity to make sacrifices (1 Samuel 15). Samuel’s words still echo as a prophetic indictment: “To obey is better than sacrifice, and to heed is better than the fat of rams” (1 Sam. 15:22).

Saul’s partial obedience was, in reality, disobedience. His rejection of God’s word led God to reject him as king.

The rest of Saul’s reign is a portrait of decline. Consumed by jealousy of David, he hurled spears at his loyal servant, hunted him through the wilderness, and descended into paranoia. His leadership became less about shepherding the people and more about protecting his own power.

Eventually, in desperation, Saul even sought out a medium, turning to the occult for guidance when God no longer answered him. By the time he fell on his own sword in battle against the Philistines (1 Sam. 31), Saul’s story had come full circle: the people who demanded a king “like the nations” received one, and it ended in disaster.

Yet God did not leave His people without hope. Out of Saul’s failure, He raised up David, “a man after God’s own heart” (1 Sam. 13:14). Unlike Saul, David’s reign pointed forward to the true King who would one day come – Jesus the Messiah. Where Saul grasped at power, Jesus humbled Himself. Where Saul disobeyed God’s word, Jesus fulfilled it perfectly. Where Saul’s reign ended in death and defeat, Jesus’ reign triumphed through resurrection.

The stories of the German church and of Israel in Samuel’s day remind us of a sobering truth: when people reject God’s rule in favor of leaders who promise security, identity, and greatness, they often get exactly what they ask for – and live to regret it.

Whether in ancient Israel or 20th-century Europe, the temptation remains the same: to trust in human strength over divine kingship. The tragedy is not just in the rise and fall of flawed leaders, but in the rejection of the only King who can truly deliver.

When Israel Rejected Their King

(A recap of the book of Judges and God’s Kingdom people)

A Kingdom with No Throne in Sight

The story of Judges doesn’t open in darkness. It begins with light. Israel had been rescued from slavery in Egypt, led through the wilderness, and brought into the land God promised their ancestors. Under Joshua, they had heard the call: Be faithful to the Torah so that all the nations will see what God is like. Yahweh Himself was their King, their Protector, their Lawgiver.

But the seeds of trouble were already in the soil. The tribes took possession of their territories, but they didn’t fully drive out the Canaanites as God had commanded. This wasn’t about ethnic rivalry — it was about worship. The Canaanites’ practices included idolatry, ritual prostitution, and even child sacrifice. Yahweh’s warning was clear: Do not learn their ways.

Instead, Israel settled alongside them… and eventually became just like them.

The Spiral: Pretty Good → OK → Bad → Worse¹

From there, Judges traces a tragic downward spiral:

Pretty good — Leaders like Othniel, Ehud, and Deborah mostly trusted Yahweh, delivered Israel from enemies, and brought periods of peace.
OK — The fearful Gideon learned to trust God in battle. But he also had a bit of a temper that led to murder. He ended up fashioning a gold ephod that became an idolatrous snare for the nation.
Bad — Jephthah, a capable warrior, was so unfamiliar with Yahweh’s character that he made a vow, promising, if victorious in battle, to sacrifice “whatever comes out of the door of my house to meet me when I return.” He was victorious. And he kept his vow, sacrificing his own daughter!
Worse — Samson, though set apart from birth, had no regard for Yahweh. He chased women, picked fights, and acted out of arrogance. Though God used his strength to deliver Israel, Samson’s life reads more like a warning than a model.

This repeating pattern — disobedience, oppression, crying out, rescue — reveals something deeper: the judges were never the true solution. Even the best were flawed. And yet, God chose, as he always does, to work through flawed humanity. Although his Spirit empowered them, it’s good to remember that empowerment does not equal endorsement.

The Refrain that Says It All

By the end, the nation hit rock bottom. The last chapters are filled with moral collapse: a man named Micah sets up a private temple to an idol. A roving militia from Dan stole it. Violence erupted. Women were abused and treated as property. Civil war broke out.

Over it all, the writer of Judges hammers this refrain:

“In those days Israel had no king; everyone did what was right in their own eyes.” (cf., Judges 17:6; 21:25)

This isn’t just a lament over the lack of a political monarch — it’s a theological diagnosis. Israel did have a King: Yahweh. But they rejected His reign, replacing covenant obedience with self-rule. “What is right in our own eyes” is rarely right in God’s eyes.

Freedom or Chaos?

We like to think we’re free when no one tells us what to do. Judges shows the opposite: self-rule without God’s rule leads to chaos. The human heart untethered from its Creator drifts, not toward flourishing, but toward destruction.

“There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way to death.” (Proverbs 14:12, NKJV)

The chaos of Judges is not just ancient history — it is a mirror. Our culture prizes autonomy, but unchecked autonomy is just another name for rebellion.

A Ray of Hope in the Darkness

Judges closes with darkness — but not without hope. The next chapters of Israel’s story will bring a king after God’s own heart. The line of David will rise, and from that line will come the true King, Jesus Christ, who perfectly embodies justice, mercy, and covenant love.

The refrain that defined Israel’s chaos — “everyone did what was right in their own eyes” — still echoes today. But for those who acknowledge Jesus as King, there is another way: to do what is right in God’s eyes, even when it’s hard, even when the culture disagrees. That way leads not to ruin, but to life.

¹Credit to Tim Mackie of The Bible Project

When the Trees Wanted a King

In the last post, I briefly mentioned the period in Israel’s history when they were led by judges appointed by God. This past week, I decided to re-read the book of Judges in the Hebrew Scriptures. To be honest, reading Judges is a bit messy – political chaos, cycles of rebellion, flawed leaders. Sound familiar?

One story tucked away in this chaos is a short fable – told not by a prophet or a priest, but by a guy named Jotham, the lone survivor of a political massacre.

Here’s the setup: the Israelite leader Gideon had died. Against the Israelites’ desire, he had refused to be made king during his lifetime. “I will not rule over you, nor will my son rule over you. The Lord will rule over you,” he told the people (Judges 8:23). But his son Abimelek had other ideas. Hungry for power, Abimelek orchestrated the murder of his seventy brothers to seize control. And the citizens of the city of Shechem went right along with it.

Jotham was the only brother who escaped. And what did he do? He climbed Mount Gerizim, lifted his voice, and told a story (Judges 9:7-15):

“One day, the trees went out to anoint a king over them…”

They asked the olive tree to rule. The olive tree said no, “Why would I stop producing what’s valuable to rule over trees?”

They asked the fig tree next. Same story. The fig tree declined – why give up sweet fruit for political power?

Then the vine, the source of wine and cheer, also said, “No thanks.”

Finally, the trees turn to the thornbush, the bramble, the kind of thing that tears clothes and starts brushfires. Like buckthorn in the Midwest regions of America.

And the bramble said, “Sure. Come sit in my shade (even though I don’t really have any). But if you don’t obey me, fire’s coming that will consume the great cedars of Lebanon.”

This fable is more than ancient storytelling. It’s a story for the ages.

The good, fruitful trees knew their role. They were content bearing what God made them to bear. But the thornbush – useless, prickly, fire-prone – was eager to rule. And the people went along with it.

Sound familiar?

We live in a world where ambition often overshadows virtue. Where fruitless voices shout the loudest. Where charisma trumps character, and we forget that who we follow shapes who we become.

Jotham’s fable isn’t just about Abimelek. It’s about us. About what kind of leaders we honor. About the way we confuse authority with fruitfulness. About how easily we trade substance for spectacle.

And here’s the kicker: Jotham ended his speech with a warning. If their choice of Abimelek was made in good faith, fine. But if it wasn’t – fire will come from the bramble. (Judges 9:16-20)

Spoiler alert: It does.

This fable was a cautionary tale to the Israelites and their desire for an earthly king to replace God as King (see Choosing Kings: The Anarchy of Rejecting God). It’s also a bit of a cautionary tale to us today about the temptation to look to thornbushes for shade.

Something ponder worthy…

If we turn to thornbushes for shade, we shouldn’t be surprised when things around us catch fire.

Choosing Kings: The Anarchy of Rejecting God

Anarchy¹ often conjures images of chaos, but at its root, it simply means “without a ruler.” That’s a more familiar story than we might think – one that traces all the way back to Eden and runs straight through our own hearts.

Individualism comes to mind. American individualism for sure. We really don’t want anyone telling us what to do. We don’t like big government, except when we want it to provide for our individual needs.

But Americans don’t have a corner on the market. It seems anarchism has been the Achilles’ heel of humanity through the ages, starting with Adam and Eve, the original individualists who preferred to reign in their own corner of the kingdom instead of submitting to God. And humanity has maintained a pattern of anarchy.

Yahweh, sovereign over all creation, is not unaware of humanity’s innate inclination toward disorder and self-rule. Nevertheless, as we have been discovering in previous blog posts, he chose flawed people through whom to initiate the redemption of a broken world. Upon the Israelites’ settlement in Canaan, God instituted a distinctive system of governance.

He appointed judges – not through human election or self-appointment, but by divine calling. Unlike other nations, Israel had no centralized army, no system of taxation, and no bureaucratic administration – only tribes trying, however imperfectly, to live in covenant with the One who had delivered them from bondage.

But as we read in 1 Samuel 8, everything changed. The people said to Samuel, ² “Now appoint for us a king to judge us like all the nations” (v. 5). They were willing to trade faith for familiarity – to be like everyone else, even if it meant rejecting the One who had rescued them.

Samuel was crushed. So was God.

“They have not rejected you,” God told Samuel, “but they have rejected me from being king over them.” (1 Samuel 8:7)

Let that sink in: the desire for a human king is framed as a rejection of divine kingship. God even warned them exactly what would be coming – a king would take their sons for war, their daughters for labor, their fields, their income, their freedom. “And you shall be his slaves” (v. 17).

It’s as if God were saying: You’re asking for your own oppression.

And they still said yes.

There’s an echo here of something deeply anarchist – not in the chaotic, lawless sense – but in the conviction that concentrated human power inevitably corrupts. True community doesn’t require coercion, but covenant. God’s intent was not empire, but a people shaped by justice, humility, and mutual care.

In their demand for a king, Israel was opting out of covenant trust and into tyranny. They chose domination over dependence. Control over communion. And God didn’t force them. He gave them what they asked for – and allowed them to live with the consequences.

The question lingers for us:
– Are we still choosing kings over covenant?
– Power over presence?
– Control over trust?

Maybe God’s “no” in 1 Samuel 8 isn’t just about ancient Israel. The kingdom Jesus proclaimed was never meant to mirror our systems – it was meant to subvert them. No golden thrones. No iron swords. Just a cross, a basin, and a table.

A little upside-down.
A little unsettling.
A little… anarchist.

¹ Anarchy comes from the Greek anarkhia, meaning “without a ruler” (an- = without, arkhos = ruler). It has several uses depending on context – political, philosophical, social critique, etc. – but at its core, anarchy refers to the absence of formal government or authority.

² Samuel was a prophet, judge, and faithful leader of the Israelites. He prayed when others panicked, listened when others rebelled, and helped a restless nation find its footing. His story can be found in 1 Samuel.

“Get off the beach!”

We just returned from a visit to France, where we spent a few days in the Normandy region – the site of the D-Day invasion on June 6, 1944. A couple of weeks ago, I reflected on that pivotal moment in a post called Fortitude.

We stayed at L’Ormel Manor – now a charming Airbnb – in Vierville-sur-Mer, just a mile from the English Channel and right in the heart of Omaha Beach. Sections of these now-serene beaches were once codenamed Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno, and Sword as part of Operation Overlord. American troops landed at Omaha Beach, where the fighting was the fiercest and the casualty rate the highest.

After being dropped off by landing craft, soldiers had to cross a wide expanse of open beach under heavy German fire. A low seawall offered a degree of protection, along with a natural ridge of sand and pebbles known as a shingle bank. If a soldier made it to the seawall, he might have had a chance to survive – for a while.

But the protection was temporary

Thousands of soldiers clustered behind the seawall. It was better than open exposure, but it wasn’t a place to stay. German artillery could be repositioned at any time. The only way forward, the only chance at survival, and the only way for the invasion to succeed, was to get off the beach and push inland.

I remember reading The Longest Day as a 17-year-old, trying to imagine boys about my age crouched behind that seawall, knowing they couldn’t stay there. I wonder how many would’ve preferred to take their chances right where they were. It took bold leadership like that of Brigadier General Norm Cota to get them moving. But that was what had to take place. There was no Plan B.

The success of D-Day rested entirely on this reality: they had to get off the beach.

Once off the beach, they needed to drive inland and establish outposts from which to continue penetrating the enemy strongholds.

In Fortitude, I reflected on another beachhead moment – when the Israelites crossed the Jordan and entered the land of Canaan. I suggested that this land wasn’t just a reward – it was a launching point. It was a beachhead for God’s people to re-engage in their calling: to be catalysts in the redemption and restoration of the world.

They were, in God’s words, a “kingdom of priests.” A people set apart to be agents of God’s presence and blessing. Their role wasn’t simply to enjoy the land, but to extend God’s goodness to the image-bearers around them. To bring God’s will to earth as it is in heaven. They were blessed to be a blessing.

At the time of their entry into Canaan (around 1400 BC), historians estimate the world population at 100–150 million. The Israelites? Maybe around three million, just 2–3% of the world’s population. For reference, Christians today make up about the same percentage of the population in Palestine.

The Israelites had a mission. But they didn’t follow through.

God’s original calling to Abraham couldn’t have been clearer:

²“I will make you into a great nation,
    and I will bless you;
I will make your name great,
    and you will be a blessing.
³I will bless those who bless you,
    and whoever curses you I will curse;
and all peoples on earth
    will be blessed through you.” (Genesis 12)

They were blessed to be a blessing

But somewhere along the way, the people of Israel got stuck behind the seawall. They began to focus more on receiving God’s blessing than extending it. More on what God could do for them than on what God had called them to do through them. And if you know the story, you know it didn’t end well.

A Word for Us…

I wonder if we – particularly those of us in the Western Church – aren’t guilty of a similar hesitation. We talk a lot about God’s blessings, God’s provision, and God’s presence for us. And those things are real, but they aren’t the whole picture.

Jesus’ parting command wasn’t to bunker down and wait for heaven. It was this: “Go and make disciples of all nations…” (Matthew 28:19). In other words, get off the beach.

God didn’t save us so we could crouch behind a seawall of safety and spiritual satisfaction. He blessed us so we could move forward, take ground, and share that blessing with the world.

Something to think about.

The Parable of the Servant King

As I read through the Gospels this past month, I was repeatedly struck by the image of Jesus as a servant. After reading John 13, I began to realize that Jesus is not only a Benevolent King, but a Servant King. So I had ChatGPT review The Parable of the Benevolent King and offer a “Servant King” version of the parable. For what it’s worth, this is what ChatGPT created…

The Parable of the Servant King and the Kingdom of Merea

Long ago, nestled between green hills and silver streams, there was a kingdom unlike any other. It bore no grand name, yet its people called it Merea, meaning “beloved dwelling.” It had no towering walls, no boastful banners, and no gleaming thrones—but it had a king.

His name was Elandir, though few addressed him by it. To most, he was simply the Servant King.

He wore no crown, save the sun-weathered hood of his traveling cloak. He carried no scepter, only a staff worn smooth from walking with the people. He lived not in a distant palace, but in a modest home at the heart of the village square, where he could be seen each day mending fences, helping mothers lift heavy buckets, or kneeling beside the sick.

Though he could command legions, he chose instead to lead by invitation, not by force. His strength was in his nearness.

The People of the Kingdom

In Merea, everyone had a place, and everyone had a part to play—not out of obligation, but out of gratitude. The king’s way inspired imitation.

The Stone-Menders fixed broken pathways, not for praise, but to ensure the elderly didn’t stumble. The Bread-Makers baked before dawn, leaving warm loaves on the doorsteps of those in need. The Fire-Keepers walked the streets on cold nights, carrying embers to reignite the hearths of the poor.

There were Listeners whose task was to visit the lonely, to sit, nod, and remind the forgotten they were seen. There were Messengers, not to carry royal edicts, but to deliver encouragement, celebrate births, and mourn losses with the grieving. Even the Children had their ministry—they brought laughter, drew chalk flowers on the town square, and reminded the old how to dance.

The Servant King gave no titles. He said that the most honored were those least noticed.

Each day he would rise before the sun and walk the length of the town, checking on the sick, delivering water, patching roofs, and praying quietly for his people. And when asked why he did such menial tasks, he would smile and say, “Because love kneels.”

Why So Many Came

The stories of Merea spread like spring wind. In lands where kings rode stallions and ruled with iron fists, the idea of a ruler who served seemed like a tale for children. Yet as the tales persisted, people began to wonder: Could such a place exist?

Travelers came—some limping, others tired of being used, many carrying wounds too deep to name. They expected gates, guards, and bureaucracy. Instead, they found the king himself waiting at the edge of the road with a cup of water and a question: “Would you like to come home?”

They stayed, not because of riches or promises, but because they were seen, known, and loved. Here, they weren’t asked what they could produce—but who they were becoming. In a world driven by status and achievement, Merea whispered a different word: belonging.

Those Who Chose to Leave

Yet not all who arrived stayed. Some grew frustrated at the Servant King’s ways. They wanted to climb ladders, not wash feet. They asked, “Why does no one rise above the rest here?” And the king, with gentleness, would reply, “Because we rise together.”

But for those who equated worth with control, it was not enough.

A few grew discontented with the slow pace of mercy. They wanted results, not relationship—efficiency, not empathy. They said, “This kingdom is too soft, too slow, too kind.” And the king, though grieved, did not chain them. He only walked with them to the edge of the kingdom and said, “Should you wish to return, the door will always remain open.”

Others left quietly—not out of anger, but from fear. The love they found in Merea felt too complete, too undeserved. They whispered, “I’m not worthy.” And though the king assured them, “None are, that’s why love bends low,” some still turned away, unable to receive what could not be earned.

A Kingdom That Keeps Giving

Yet the Servant King did not despair. He kept sowing seeds, bandaging wounds, listening to stories, and setting tables. The kingdom did not grow by conquest, but by kindness. It expanded not in borders, but in beauty.

Children raised in Merea grew up with strong hands and soft hearts. The old passed their wisdom to the young, and no one was left behind. Festivals were thrown, not for profit, but to celebrate life together. And in every corner of the land, the fragrance of compassion lingered.

And still, the Servant King walks the roads. Some say he’s grown older. Others say he’s only grown deeper—his eyes full of both sorrow and joy. He still waits by the gates each morning, lantern in hand, ready to welcome the next weary traveler who dares to believe that greatness might be found in kneeling love.

I Almost Bought the Farm

Quite literally! Growing up, I loved farming – despite the inherent challenges of dairy farming in the ’50s and ’60s. We didn’t have much. I remember some bleak Christmases. We only made the 3-mile trip into town if it was absolutely necessary. Dairy farming is a 365-day-a-year commitment, so youth sports and weekend getaways were out of the question. Still, I wouldn’t have traded that upbringing for anything.

But I did – I went to college to be an engineer.

After a couple of years of college, I found myself unsure of what I really wanted to do with my life. I struggled in college. My grades were probably an indicator of my uncertainty. So I dropped out for a time, choosing to work for the local company that had hired me to work in their drafting department as a junior in high school. I had employment as long as I was in school, so I continued taking one or two evening engineering courses per semester at the University of Minnesota. Evening classes in the ’70s required an in-person commute, unlike online school today.

While working and commuting to the U, a dairy farm near my home became available for purchase. Because of my uncertainty about life, I decided to consider the possibility of buying the farm and becoming a dairy farmer. A high school classmate of mine was the realtor. We had many discussions as to how I might be able to purchase the farm. I was excited about the possibilities of becoming a landowner.

I almost bought that farm. I suppose I forgot how relentless dairy farming is. But when our future feels uncertain, we often retreat to what we know best. I wonder if that’s what happened with the Israelites in the wilderness when they formed the golden calf. Moses, their leader and the voice of Yahweh, had vanished up the mountain. Their future looked uncertain. So they defaulted to what was familiar: a tangible god, something they could control.

In time – forty years’ time – they learned to trust God. They followed Him through the desert, being shaped into a people ready to live in the land He had promised. That land wasn’t just a gift, but a launch point – a base from which they would fulfill their calling to be God’s covenant people, a blessing to the world. As kingdom people, they would participate in His redemption project – new creation and an “on earth as in heaven” type restoration.

But their desert journey came with hard lessons. The biggest one? God is sovereign. They were not. Yielding to His rule brought life. Resisting brought the opposite.

Eventually, they were ready. Joshua led them across the Jordan into Canaan. The land was apportioned according to their tribal lines – though the tribes of Reuben, Gad, and half of Manasseh chose to settle east of the river.

Before they entered, Yahweh made it abundantly clear how they were to live together in the land under his Kingship. This was the point of the Torah: for God to be their God, and they His people (cf. Exodus 6:6-7, Leviticus 25:38, Deuteronomy 29:13, Jeremiah 7:23, etc).

Theologically, we know this as the Covenant Formula*

As Creator, the land belonged to Him. “The land must not be sold permanently, because the land is mine and you reside in my land as foreigners and strangers (…)” (Leviticus 25:23-25). They were guests – stewards, not owners.

They were there at His pleasure, so to speak.

As landlord, God gave them instructions on how to treat the land and each other. Every seven years, the land was to rest. This not only rejuvenated the soil but also gave farmers, servants, and animals a Sabbath. This same principle was instituted by the United States Soil Conservation Service to combat the propensity for things like the Dust Bowl. We did something similar when I farmed, fallowing about one-seventh of our land each year. Good husbandry.

God also instituted the Year of the Jubilee. Every 50 years, property returned to its original family, debts were forgiven, and slaves were released. A full reset. A radical vision of liberty and justice.

But as far as we know, the Jubilee was never observed.

For a long time, I struggled with the fairness of Jubilee. But once I grasped that the land never truly belonged to them – it was God’s – the whole concept made sense. He was King. He owned everything. The people were simply stewards.

Somewhere along the way, they lost sight of that. Sometimes I wonder if we have too. God is still King. He still owns everything. We are still stewards – of our resources, our relationships, our work, even our time.

What would it look like if we lived more like that were true?

* A key element of the Covenant Formula is the people’s relationship with God and with each other. Jesus recapped the Formula with his infamous “Love God, love others” command (see Deuteronomy 6:4-5 and Leviticus 19:18).