Day 68: 2 Samuel 18:1–18

So he gave the pillar his name. It is still called Absalom’s Monument today (v. 18).

In David and Absalom we watched an emotional match involving two opponents torn between love and hate. Now we will see one go down tragically. We can’t change the story. We can only agree to be changed through it.

We saw that David won the battle of the counselors. Now came the battle of blood and bone. Absalom drew up his army to fight his father. David sent forth his army to fight the men of Absalom, but he gave each of his commanders, in the hearing of their troops, the same command. “Be gentle with the young man Absalom for my sake” (v. 5).

Imagine how demoralizing David’s behavior must have been for the men who were risking their lives for him. Small wonder how Joab responded. He’d had enough of David’s behavior.

The battle took place in the forest of Ephraim with twenty thousand casualties. Absalom rode his mule under a tree and caught his head in the branches. A soldier brought word to Joab that Absalom was “hanging around” in the area. The soldier feared harming Absalom because of David’s words, but Joab hurried to kill the king’s son.

At one time Absalom was a handsome and compassionate man. He loved his sister deeply, grieving the shame Amnon had heaped on her. He made a place for his desolate sister in his own home. He named his daughter Tamar in her honor. He tried to do the right things for Tamar, but he ended up doing all the wrong things for himself.

My oldest daughter Amanda has always been relatively easy to discipline. When she was a little girl and misbehaved, all I had to do was walk toward the drawer that held a flimsy plastic spatula and she would sweetly say, “I feel better!” Though she could not state the situation clearly, she chose to respond to discipline in the least painful way: “I feel better.”

One day a good friend of mine grabbed that same spatula and swatted her little boy for repeatedly disobeying her. The son wasn’t hurt, but he was as mad as a hornet. Amanda stood right next to him while his mother paddled him and continued to ask, “Do you feel better?” If looks could kill, my precious angel would have been dead! He finally screamed, “No, I not feel better!”

Those words could apply to Absalom. He didn’t feel better after Amnon was in the grave. He didn’t feel better when David let him return to Jerusalem without punishment. He didn’t feel better after he was summoned to the king’s quarters and reunited with his father. And after stealing the hearts of his father’s people, he still didn’t feel any better. Absalom ultimately possessed as little self-control as the brother he despised. His lack of self-control finally killed him.

Can you imagine the thoughts going through the head of that beautiful but troubled young man as he struggled to set himself free from the tree branches? The picture of his death was the picture of his life: the noose of bitterness choking the captive’s cry. In the end, those close enough to hear him choking no longer cared.

Like departing words on a tombstone, we read Absalom’s eulogy in verse 18: “Absalom had taken a pillar and erected it in the King’s Valley as a monument to himself.” At first glance, the verse seems to fit the chapter like a square peg in a round hole. At second glance, the passage relates perfectly to the verse before it.

I see great irony in the fact that the record of Absalom’s grave—the “huge mound of stones” piled over him by Joab’s men—and the account of the monument he erected to himself appear together in Scripture. The verses demonstrate that Absalom’s death as a traitor remains far more memorable than his self-absorbed life. Through bitterness, Absalom’s heart became as hard and cold as the pillar he raised. Even though David committed many sins and was unfair to others, his heart did not grow cold.

After Absalom’s death, word reached the waiting David. He cried out, “O Absalom, my son, my son!” (2 Sam. 18:33). The words send chills up a parent’s spine, don’t they? Suddenly, a heart of tragically suppressed love exploded. Tears he should have cried long ago poured from his eyes. Words he should have said the moment he first saw his prodigal finally burst from his lips: “My son, O, my son!” He did not speak about him. He spoke right to him, as if his voice would carry to the depths of the pit where the body lay.

“If only I had died instead of you!” (v. 33).

Death would have been far easier than life without him. What grieving parent hasn’t cried those same words? Felt those same emotions? And where was God when David lost his son? Where was He when a king’s own countrymen pierced his son? Where was He when the blood poured forth? The same place He was when He lost His own Son.