_DAVID'S GRIEF FOR ABSALOM._
2 SAMUEL xviii. 19-33; xix. 1-4.
"Next to the calamity of losing a battle," a great general used
to say, "is that of gaining a victory." The battle in the wood of
Ephraim left twenty thousand of King David's subjects dead or dying
on the field. It is remarkable how little is made of this dismal
fact. Men's lives count for little in time of war, and death, even
with its worst horrors, is just the common fate of warriors. Yet
surely David and his friends could not think lightly of a calamity
that cut down more of the sons of Israel than any battle since the
fatal day of Mount Gilboa. Nor could they form a light estimate of
the guilt of the man whose inordinate vanity and ambition had cost
the nation such a fearful loss.
But all thoughts of this kind were for the moment brushed aside by
the crowning fact that Absalom himself was dead. And this fact,
as well as the tidings of the victory, must at once be carried to
David. Mahanaim, where David was, was probably but a little distance
from the field of battle. A friend offered to Joab to carry the
news--Ahimaaz, the son of Zadok the priest. He had formerly been
engaged in the same way, for he was one of those that had brought
word to David of the result of Absalom's council, and of other
things that were going on in Jerusalem. But Joab did not wish that
Ahimaaz should be the bearer of the news. He would not deprive him of
the character of king's messenger, but he would employ him as such
another time. Meanwhile the matter was entrusted to another man,
called in the Authorized Version Cushi, but in the Revised Version
the Cushite. Whoever this may have been, he was a simple official,
not like Ahimaaz, a personal friend of David. And this seems to have
been Joab's reason for employing him. It is evident that physically
he was not better adapted to the task than Ahimaaz, for when the
latter at last got leave to go he overran the Cushite. But Joab
appears to have felt that it would be better that David should
receive his first news from a mere official than from a personal
friend. The personal friend would be likely to enter into details
that the other would not give. It is clear that Joab was ill at ease
in reference to his own share in the death of Absalom. He would fain
keep that back from David, at least for a time; it would be enough
for him at the first to know that the battle had been gained, and
that Absalom was dead.
But Ahimaaz was persistent, and after the Cushite had been despatched
he carried his point, and was allowed to go. Very graphic is the
description of the running of the two men and of their arrival at
Mahanaim. The king had taken his place at the gate of the city, and
stationed a watchman on the wall above to look out eagerly lest any
one should come bringing news of the battle. In those primitive
times there was no more rapid way of despatching important news than
by a swift well-trained runner on foot. In the clear atmosphere
of the East first one man, then another, was seen running alone.
By-and-bye, the watchman surmised that the foremost of the two was
Ahimaaz; and when the king heard it, remembering his former message,
he concluded that such a man must be the bearer of good tidings. As
soon as he came within hearing of the king, he shouted out, "All
is well." Coming close, he fell on his face and blessed God for
delivering the rebels into David's hands. Before thanking him or
thanking God, the king showed what was uppermost in his heart by
asking, "Is the young man Absalom safe?" And here the moral courage
of Ahimaaz failed him, and he gave an evasive answer: "When Joab sent
the king's servant, and me thy servant, I saw a great tumult, but I
knew not what it was." When he heard this the king bade him stand
aside, till he should hear what the other messenger had to say. And
the official messenger was more frank than the personal friend. For
when the king repeated the question about Absalom, the answer was,
"The enemies of my lord the king, and all that rise against thee to
do thee hurt, be as that young man is." The answer was couched in
skilful words. It suggested the enormity of Absalom's guilt, and of
the danger to the king and the state which he had plotted, and the
magnitude of the deliverance, seeing that he was now beyond the power
of doing further evil.
But such soothing expressions were lost upon the king. The worst
fears of his heart were realized--Absalom was dead. Gone from earth
for ever, beyond reach of the yearnings of his heart; gone to answer
for crimes that were revolting in the sight of God and man. "The
king was much moved; and he went up to the chamber over the gate and
wept; and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom! my son, my son
Absalom! Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!"
He had been a man of war, a man of the sword; he had been familiar
with death, and had seen it once and again in his own family; but
the tidings of Absalom's death fell upon him with all the force of a
first bereavement. Not more piercing is the wail of the young widow
when suddenly the corpse of her beloved is borne into the house, not
more overwhelming is her sensation, as if the solid earth were giving
way beneath her, than the emotion that now prostrated King David.
Grief for the dead is always sacred; and however unworthy we may
regard the object of it, we cannot but respect it in King David.
Viewed simply as an expression of his unquenched affection for
his son, and separated from its bearing on the interests of the
kingdom, and from the air of repining it seemed to carry against the
dispensation of God, it showed a marvellously tender and forgiving
heart. In the midst of an odious and disgusting rebellion, and with
the one object of seeking out his father and putting him to death,
the heartless youth had been arrested and had met his deserved fate.
Yet so far from showing satisfaction that the arm that had been
raised to crush him was laid low in death, David could express no
feelings but those of love and longing. Was it not a very wonderful
love, coming very near to the feeling of Him who prayed, "Father,
forgive them, for they know not what they do," like that "love
Divine, all love excelling," that follows the sinner through all his
wanderings, and clings to him amid all his rebellions; the love of
Him that not merely wished in a moment of excitement that He could
die for His guilty children but did die for them, and in dying bore
their guilt and took it away, and of which the brief but matchless
record is that "having once loved His own that were with Him in the
world, He loved them even unto the end?"
The elements of David's intense agony, when he heard of Absalom's
death, were mainly three. In the first place, there was the loss of
his son, of whom he could say that, with all his faults, he loved him
still. A dear object had been plucked from his heart, and left it sick,
vacant, desolate. A face he had often gazed on with delight lay cold
in death. He had not been a good son, he had been very wicked; but
affection has always its visions of a better future, and is ready to
forgive unto seventy times seven. And then death is so dreadful when it
fastens on the young. It seems so cruel to fell to the ground a bright
young form; to extinguish by one blow his every joy, every hope, every
dream; to reduce him to nothingness, so far as this life is concerned.
An infinite pathos, in a father's experience, surrounds a young man's
death. The regret, the longing, the conflict with the inevitable, seem
to drain him of all energy, and leave him helpless in his sorrow.
Secondly, there was the terrible fact that Absalom had died in
rebellion, without expressing one word of regret, without one request
for forgiveness, without one act or word that it would be pleasant
to recall in time to come, as a foil to the bitterness caused by his
unnatural rebellion. Oh, if he had had but an hour to think of his
position, to realise the lesson of his defeat, to ask his father's
forgiveness, to curse the infatuation of the last few years! How would
one such word have softened the sting of his rebellion in his father's
breast! What a change it would have given to the aspect of his evil
life! But not even the faint vestige of such a thing was ever shown;
the unmitigated glare of that evil life must haunt his father evermore!
Thirdly, there was the fact that in this rebellious condition he had
passed to the judgment of God. What hope could there be for such a
man, living and dying as he had done? Where could he be now? Was not
"the great pit in the wood," into which his unhonoured carcase had
been flung, a type of another pit, the receptacle of his soul? What
agony to the Christian heart is like that of thinking of the misery
of dear ones who have died impenitent and unpardoned?
To these and similar elements of grief David appears to have
abandoned himself without a struggle. But was this right? Ought he
not to have made some acknowledgment of the Divine hand in his trial,
as he did when Bathsheba's child died? Ought he not to have acted as
he did on another occasion, when he said, "I was dumb with silence,
I opened not my mouth, because Thou didst it"? We have seen that in
domestic matters he was not accustomed to place himself so thoroughly
under the control of the Divine will as in the more public business
of his life; and now we see that, when his parental feelings are
crushed, he is left without the steadying influence of submission to
the will of God. And in the agony of his private grief he forgets
the public welfare of the nation. Noble and generous though the wish
be, "Would God I had died for thee," it was on public grounds out
of the question. Let us imagine for one moment the wish realized.
David has fallen and Absalom survives. What sort of kingdom would it
have been? What would have been the fate of the gallant men who had
defended David? What would have been the condition of God's servants
throughout the kingdom? What would have been the influence of so
godless a monarch upon the interests of truth and the cause of God?
It was a rash and unadvised utterance of affection. But for the rough
faithfulness of Joab, the consequences would have been disastrous.
"The victory that day was turned into mourning, for the people heard
say that day how the king was grieved for his son." Every one was
discouraged. The man for whom they had risked their lives had not a
word of thanks to any of them, and could think of no one but that
vile son of his, who was now dead. In the evening Joab came to him,
and in his blunt way swore to him that if he was not more affable
to the people they would not remain a night longer in his service.
Roused by the reproaches and threatenings of his general, the king
did now present himself among them. The people responded and came
before him, and the effort he made to show himself agreeable kept
them to their allegiance, and led on to the steps for his restoration
that soon took place.
But it must have been an effort to abstract his attention from
Absalom, and fix it on the brighter results of the battle. And
not only that night, in the silence of his chamber, but for many
a night, and perhaps many a day, during the rest of his life, the
thought of that battle and its crowning catastrophe must have haunted
David like an ugly dream. We seem to see him in some still hour
of reverie recalling early days;--happy scenes rise around him;
lovely children gambol at his side; he hears again the merry laugh
of little Tamar, and smiles as he recalls some childish saying of
Absalom; he is beginning, as of old, to forecast the future and
shape out for them careers of honour and happiness; when, horror of
horrors! the spell breaks; the bright vision gives way to dismal
realities--Tamar's dishonour, Amnon's murder, Absalom's insurrection,
and, last not least, Absalom's death, glare in the field of memory!
Who will venture to say that David did not smart for his sins? Who
that reflects would be willing to take the cup of sinful indulgence
from his hands, sweet though it was in his mouth, when he sees it so
bitter in the belly?
Two remarks may appropriately conclude this chapter, one with
reference to grief from bereavements in general, the other with
reference to the grief that may arise to Christians in connection
with the spiritual condition of departed children.
1. With reference to grief from bereavements in general, it is to be
observed that they will prove either a blessing or an evil according
to the use to which they are turned. All grief in itself is a
weakening thing--weakening both to the body and the mind, and it were
a great error to suppose that it _must_ do good in the end. There
are some who seem to think that to resign themselves to overwhelming
grief is a token of regard to the memory of the departed, and they
take no pains to counteract the depressing influence. It is a painful
thing to say, yet it is true, that a long-continued manifestation
of overwhelming grief, instead of exciting sympathy, is more apt
to cause annoyance. Not only does it depress the mourner himself,
and unfit him for his duties to the living, but it depresses those
that come in contact with him, and makes them think of him with a
measure of impatience. And this suggests another remark. It is not
right to obtrude our grief overmuch on others, especially if we are
in a public position. Let us take example in this respect from our
blessed Lord. Was any sorrow like unto His sorrow? Yet how little
did He obtrude it even on the notice of His disciples! It was
towards the end of His ministry before He even began to tell them
of the dark scenes through which He was to pass; and even when He
did tell them how He was to be betrayed and crucified, it was not
to court their sympathy, but to prepare them for their part of the
trial. And when the overwhelming agony of Gethsemane drew on, it was
only three of the twelve that were permitted to be with Him. All such
considerations show that it is a more Christian thing to conceal our
griefs than to make others uncomfortable by obtruding them upon their
notice. David was on the very eve of losing the affections of those
who had risked everything for him, by abandoning himself to anguish
for his private loss, and letting his distress for the dead interfere
with his duty to the living.
And how many things are there to a Christian mind fitted to abate
the first sharpness even of a great bereavement. Is it not the
doing of a Father, infinitely kind? Is it not the doing of Him "who
spared not His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all"? You say
you can see no light through it,--it is dark, all dark, fearfully
dark. Then you ought to fall back on the inscrutability of God. Hear
Him saying, "What I do, thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know
hereafter." Resign yourself patiently to His hands, till He make the
needed revelation, and rest assured that when it is made it will be
worthy of God. "Ye have heard of the patience of Job, and have seen
the end of the Lord, that the Lord is very pitiful and of tender
mercy." Meanwhile, be impressed with the vanity of this life, and
the infinite need of a higher portion. "Set your affection on things
above, and not on the things on the earth. For ye are dead, and your
life is hid with Christ in God. When Christ, who is your Life, shall
appear, then shall ye also appear with Him in glory."
2. The other remark that falls to be made here concerns the grief
that may arise to Christians in connection with the spiritual
condition of departed children.
When the parent is either in doubt as to the happiness of a beloved
one, or has cause to apprehend that the portion of that child is
with the unbelievers, the pang which he experiences is one of the
most acute which the human heart can know. Now here is a species of
suffering which, if not peculiar to believers, falls on them far the
most heavily, and is, in many cases, a haunting spectre of misery. The
question naturally arises, Is it not strange that their very beliefs,
as Christians, subject them to such acute sufferings? If one were a
careless, unbelieving man, and one's child died without evidence of
grace, one would probably think nothing of it, because the things that
are unseen and eternal are never in one's thoughts. But just because
one believes the testimony of God on this great subject, one becomes
liable to a peculiar agony. Is this not strange indeed?
Yes, there is a mystery in it which we cannot wholly solve. But we
must remember that it is in thorough accordance with a great law
of Providence, the operation of which, in other matters, we cannot
overlook. That law is, that the cultivation and refinement of any
organ or faculty, while it greatly increases your capacity of
enjoyment, increases at the same time your capacity, and it may be
your occasions, of suffering. Let us take, for example, the habit of
cleanliness. Where this habit prevails, there is much more enjoyment
in life; but let a person of great cleanliness be surrounded by
filth, his suffering is infinitely greater. Or take the cultivation
of taste, and let us say of musical taste. It adds to life an immense
capacity of enjoyment, but also a great capacity and often much
occasion of suffering, because bad music or tasteless music, such as
one may often have to endure, creates a misery unknown to the man
of no musical culture. To a man of classical taste, bad writing or
bad speaking, such as is met with every day, is likewise a source
of irritation and suffering. If we advance to a moral and spiritual
region, we may see that the cultivation of one's ordinary affections,
apart from religion, while on the whole it increases enjoyment, does
also increase sorrow. If I lived and felt as a Stoic, I should enjoy
family life much less than if I were tender-hearted and affectionate;
but when I suffered a family bereavement I should suffer much less.
These are simply illustrations of the great law of Providence that
culture, while it increases happiness, increases suffering too. It
is a higher application of the same law, that gracious culture, the
culture of our spiritual affections under the power of the Spirit of
God, in increasing our enjoyment does also increase our capacity of
suffering. In reference to that great problem of natural religion,
Why should a God of infinite benevolence have created creatures
capable of suffering? one answer that has often been given is, that
if they had not been capable of suffering they might not have been
capable of enjoyment. But in pursuing these inquiries we get into an
obscure region, in reference to which it is surely our duty patiently
to wait for that increase of light which is promised to us in the
second stage of our existence.
Yet still it remains to be asked, What comfort can there possibly
be for Christian parents in such a case as David's? What possible
consideration can ever reconcile them to the thought that their
beloved ones have gone to the world of woe? Are not their children
parts of themselves, and how is it possible for them to be completely
saved if those who are so identified with them are lost? How can they
ever be happy in a future life if eternally separated from those who
were their nearest and dearest on earth? On such matters it has pleased
God to allow a great cloud to rest which our eyes cannot pierce.
We cannot solve this problem. We cannot reconcile perfect personal
happiness, even in heaven, with the knowledge that beloved ones are
lost. But God must have some way, worthy of Himself, of solving the
problem. And we must just wait for His time of revelation. "God is His
own interpreter, and He will make it plain." The Judge of all the earth
must act justly. And the song which will express the deepest feelings
of the redeemed, when from the sea of glass, mingled with fire, they
look back on the ways of Providence toward them, will be this: "Great
and marvellous are Thy works, Lord God Almighty; _just and true are all
Thy ways_, Thou King of saints. Who would not fear Thee and glorify Thy
name, for Thou only art holy?"