We step into a moment of crisis that feels all too familiar—communities under siege, leaders scrambling to respond, hope hanging by a thread. The chapter begins with Nahash the Ammonite laying siege to Jabesh‑Gilead. He offers terms that chill our hearts even today: if they surrender, he will gouge out every man’s right eye. The people plead for seven days to seek relief from Israel; after that, they must submit to this brutal humiliation. When we think of the toll of oppression, we sense the raw fear and desperation that drive a people to make even impossible promises for a chance at survival.
Messengers speed through the darkness toward Gibeah, breathless with the dreadful news. They find Saul in his field, warming himself by the plow, unaware that the fate of thousands is about to sweep him into action. We watch Saul’s transformation at this moment—from solitary farmer to rallying commander—and we catch our breath. News like this has toppled elections, united divided families, and birthed unlikely heroes throughout history. It’s a reminder that sometimes our most ordinary routine is shattered so that something greater can begin.
When those messengers tell Saul about Jabesh‑Gilead’s plight, his spirit catches fire. He hears their fear and knows he must answer. We know that stirring in our own hearts when we sense injustice—when we recognize a call to stand with the vulnerable. Saul’s response is dramatic: he cuts a pair of oxen in pieces, then sends those pieces throughout the territory of Israel with the chilling message that anyone who does not follow him and Samuel will share the fate of those dismembered animals. It’s a vivid tactic, one that shocks people out of complacency. We can imagine the conversations that ignited in every village: What’s this about? Are we ready to take up arms for our neighbors?
The result is electrifying. The Israelites rally by hundreds, then by thousands, gathering at Bezek. Under an oath sworn before Yahweh, they commit to fight. We catch the urgency in the air: the oath binds them more tightly than any contract, because it invokes the name of the Lord as witness. In our own lives, oaths have a weight we often underestimate—promises we make to loved ones, covenants entered in church or community meetings. When we name the divine as witness, we awaken a deeper sense of accountability and unity.
Saul’s band of rescuers moves under the cover of night. At dawn they charge into the Ammonite camp, and the surprise is total. Terror splits through the enemy ranks; they scatter like chaff before the wind. The Israelites swarm the fleeing foe, rescuing Jabesh‑Gilead and exacting justice for every eye Nahash threatened. The battlefield silence that follows such routs is always haunting—one moment the ground quakes with shouts, the next it lies still, bearing testimony to lives changed, families spared, and dignity reclaimed. We remember our own battles—big or small—where victory doesn’t just happen by strategy but by the resolve to protect what is right.
When the smoke clears, the people return to Gilgal, where the newly anointed king, Saul, is met with shouts of “Long live the king!” There is jubilation in the air, a collective exhale after weeks of terror. But it is more than relief; it is a reaffirmation of shared identity. We see how a common crisis can forge a stronger “us,” how a decisive victory against an oppressor can cement bonds among people who might otherwise drift apart. In our era, we glimpse similar moments—natural disasters, social upheavals, pandemics—when neighbors build hospitals together in tents, volunteers stand side by side, and strangers become family in the face of real threat.
At Gilgal, Saul builds an altar to the LORD, and with offerings and thanksgivings, the nation consecrates its deliverance to God. We feel the beauty of that act—turning swords into plowshares of praise, dedicating the very instruments of war to the One who grants victory. It reminds us that though conflict may be necessary to resist evil, our ultimate allegiance is not to the power of might alone, but to the God who reigns above the storms of history. When we remember that truth, our triumphs become testimonies rather than trophies, and our communities find a pattern for peace that outlasts any battlefield success.
Saul’s leadership in this crisis is both surprising and instructive. He went from field laborer to war chief almost overnight, yet his first act as king is to rush toward danger rather than turn away. We think of leaders in our own time whose calling came unexpectedly—ordinary teachers navigating school shootings; medical volunteers stepping up in viral outbreaks; civilians protecting refugees at border crossings. In each case, greatness is not born of ambition but of willingness to serve when the need is greatest. Saul’s example prods us to ask: what everyday moment might become our own call to courage?
As the camp breaks and each man returns to his home, the echoes of the shouts still ring. “Has anything ever happened like this in Israel?” they must have asked in the days to come. For us, the chapter lingers as a powerful reminder that leadership forged in service carries a lasting legacy. The rescue of Jabesh‑Gilead stands not only as a military victory, but as a story woven into the national memory—one that would shape how Israel remembered its first king and how we remember the kings and leaders who lead by putting themselves in harm’s way.
In reflecting on this dramatic chapter, we are invited to carry forward its lessons: that we must never regard symbols of faith—like the altar at Gilgal—as empty rituals apart from justice; that when neighbors cry out under tyranny, our first response must be swift and compassionate; and that God often raises up leaders from the least expected places, equipping them with a spirit he has already placed within them. May we too be ready when such moments arrive—ready to listen, ready to rally, and ready to act on behalf of those who cannot fight for themselves.