*Editor’s Note: First Samuel 13 narrates the sad account of how Israel’s first king, Saul, lost the opportunity for his kingdom to endure. God’s prophet Samuel had told Saul to wait for Samuel to come and offer a sacrifice before the battle with the Philistines. When Samuel was late in arriving, Saul took matters in his own hands, offered the sacrifice, and just then, Samuel arrived. Samuel regretfully told Saul that, because of his impatience, God would not let his kingdom become an enduring dynasty. The following is an imaginative retelling of what happens next, from the perspective of Saul’s son, the soldier-prince Jonathan. The following is excerpted from Jared Ellis’s The Warrior’s Rune.
For days, Saul remained inside, never showing his face to Samuel, his men, or even his son. Jonathan questioned Saul’s closest confidants, but they were useless.
“The Philistines are in our land! Let’s go to war!” Jonathan would say. But they would do nothing. What could they say to him? Were they to tell Jonathan his father robbed him of the future crown? After many snuffed attempts at stoking the old embers from the upper ranks, he finally stopped trying to roust them. He was once surrounded by the best of Israel’s infantry, but they were now nothing more than a company of caution-ridden cowards.
Were they ever what he perceived them to be, or were they simply figments of his youthful delusions?
Jonathan began mindlessly examining his sword. Rust. Not much, but enough. Small pockets and pits speckled the blade from the tip to the hilt. Naturally, he took the small dagger from his belt. He then began to pick away at the soil, blood, and patina, as he had seen his father do many times. “For all that a sword can do, it cannot sharpen itself.” He could still hear his father say.
“For all that a sword can do, it cannot sharpen itself.”
As he worked the two blades together, memories from happier times returned. The dagger was a gift from his father and bestowed to him on his twelfth birthday. He loved the knife, but not nearly as much as he loved the story that came with it, a story that Jonathan forced Saul to tell him repeatedly. He could still hear his father’s deep, earthy voice.
“This knife belonged to the wicked Ammonite king, Nahash,” he would say. “You were just a baby when this happened. Nahash had sieged Jabesh Gilead and threatened to kill everyone if they did not surrender. However, if they did surrender, then Nahash promised that he would not kill them.” Then Saul would hold the knife up to his eye and say in his nastiest voice, “But if you do surrender, I will take one eye from every man here, just for being cowards!”
Jonathan would then ask, “What did you do?” triggering Saul to tell his favorite part of the story.
Building the suspense, Saul would compose himself, hand the knife back to his son, and say, “That’s enough for tonight.”
Jonathan would plead for his father to tell him the end of the story, but instead, Saul would blow out the candle, say good night, and feign leaving the room. But then, just before closing the door, Saul would burst back into the room, spinning, swinging, dodging, and ducking. After finishing off his fictitious foe, he slowly walked toward the boy with a menacing grin. Then, all at once, Saul would lunge and land the fatal blow to Jonathan’s belly with a giant finger. He would say, “My son is more of a warrior than you. Give me that knife!” They would both laugh. Saul would leave the room, and Jonathan would lie there smiling himself to sleep.
“Saul would leave the room, and Jonathan would lie there smiling himself to sleep.”
Jonathan scraped the dagger down the sword’s edge. The blades screeched excitedly. The sound was pleasing to Jonathan. He turned the sword over and introduced the dagger to the opposite side. It trilled with joy, like the meeting of two long-lost friends. The sword scattered the sun’s reflection all over the ground. He raked the blades together once more, and they sang a sacred song, one only known and loved by soldiers. He smiled, appreciating the usefulness of the small knife.
Suddenly, the phrase he had heard so many times before was as new as the blade in his hands. For all that a sword can do, it cannot sharpen itself. Finally, it all made sense.
“They aren’t cowards….” Jonathan quietly said, “They just need the edges scraped…they just need…another blade.”
Men are designed for danger, created for chaos, and built for brutality. Men are like swords; they defend, deflect, disarm, or dismember, depending on the situation. But, like a sword, a man can allow himself to become dull, weak, and tarnished. There is only one thing that can restore the razor-sharp edge of a bloke or a blade—friction.
“Like a sword, a man can allow himself to become dull, weak, and tarnished.”
It is easy to identify a man who no longer has a razor’s edge. His best stories are from the past. His most significant victories are dust-layered memories. He never speaks of his shortcomings, but he never lacks advice either. Passive. Guilt-ridden. Safe. Friendless. Starving. Although secretly, his soul desires a violent exchange, he will not allow another man to sharpen him. That is because it is too terrifying. Too challenging. A man can only be restored when he becomes vulnerable enough that another could undo him. Then he can be sharpened. Then he can be good and just and honest.
A man needs to feel an arm under his chin, and his air cut short to know what he could do to another. He needs to feel the blunt strike of knuckles driven into his cheekbones and ribs so he knows well the impact and pain he can deliver to an enemy. He must feel his lungs afire, see his heart visibly pounding in his chest, and taste his own blood to remember how precious life is and why he must fight for it. Then they must embrace the one who dealt him those blows so he never forgets the importance of mercy, compassion, and gentleness.
For all that a man can do, he cannot sharpen himself. He needs a friend willing to carve into him and scrape the rust from his soul.
