In many households, the fiercest battles aren’t over money, grades, or even chores. They erupt over something far smaller, yet symbolically much larger: the television remote.
Picture the scene. One child demands endless loops of music videos, complete with dance routines that turn the living room into a stage. Another insists on hours of Minecraft, constructing digital castles, mining resources, and battling pixelated monsters. The struggle escalates quickly, with both convinced that their way should prevail.
Sometimes tactics grow creative. The youngest might even snatch the remote and hide it—ensuring victory, at least until she forgets where she placed it. Suddenly the entire household is caught up in a frantic search for the missing object, as though the fate of the kingdom itself hangs in the balance.
But the battle is not really about the remote. The remote is only the symbol, the stand-in for something far deeper. The true prize is control. Who gets to decide what fills the screen? Who sets the agenda? Who rules the “living room kingdom”?
This everyday struggle points to a much bigger reality. From living rooms to boardrooms, from family tables to thrones of power, humanity has always wrestled with the same question: Who gets to be king?
The book of 1 Samuel leads us into the heart of this tension. Saul, Israel’s first king, sits uneasy on his throne. His reign began with promise but has soured with jealousy and fear. David, once the shepherd boy who felled Goliath, has risen in favor with God and with the people. His victories ring louder than Saul’s, and the songs sung in his honor pierce Saul’s pride.
At the new moon feast, Saul’s son Jonathan sits at the table. David’s seat is empty, part of a plan to test the king’s heart. On the first day, Saul excuses the absence—perhaps David is ceremonially unclean. But on the second day, Saul’s suspicion hardens. He asks Jonathan where David has gone.
Jonathan offers the agreed explanation. But instead of calming Saul, it ignites his fury. His rage turns not against David, but against his own son: “As long as the son of Jesse lives on earth, neither you nor your kingdom shall be established.” In that moment Saul’s jealousy, fear, and desperation explode. A spear flies at Jonathan, narrowly missing him.
The message is clear: Saul will not surrender the throne.
Jonathan, however, makes a different choice. By birthright, the kingdom should have been his. He was Saul’s heir, the crown prince. Yet Jonathan recognizes God’s hand on David’s life. Instead of fighting for what was his, Jonathan bows in surrender. He affirms his covenant with David, declaring his loyalty not to his own ambitions but to God’s anointed.
This is not weakness. This is strength of the highest order—the strength to lay down one’s rights for the will of God.
It is easy to shake our heads at Saul. How could he be so blind? How could a man chosen by God let jealousy and fear twist him into a tyrant who would hurl spears at his own son? Surely we would never go that far.
But look closer, and Saul begins to feel uncomfortably familiar.
Saul’s anger did not erupt in a vacuum. It was the natural outflow of a heart unwilling to surrender. He saw God’s blessing on David, but instead of bowing to God’s will, he clung tighter to his throne. Every song sung in David’s honor felt like an attack on his identity. Every victory David won felt like a threat to his power. The spear in Saul’s hand was simply an extension of the rebellion already alive in his heart.
And here’s the truth we don’t like to admit: that same rebellion lives in us.
- We hear God’s Word but choose our own way because it feels easier, safer, or more satisfying in the moment.
- We cling to relationships, finances, or careers as though they belong to us, rather than to God.
- We lash out in anger—sometimes with words, sometimes with silence, sometimes with bitterness—when life does not bend to our will.
Like Saul, we resist surrender. We want to sit on the throne of our own lives. We want to be in control.
The problem is that the human heart was never designed to bear that weight. When we crown ourselves king, anxiety multiplies, jealousy festers, and fear takes root. We become suspicious, restless, even destructive—hurling our own “spears” in desperate attempts to protect a kingdom that was never truly ours.
Saul’s story is not an ancient cautionary tale about someone else’s failure. It is a mirror. And if we dare to look into it, we see ourselves staring back.
“Saul’s story is not just history—it is a mirror. When we see his fear and stubbornness, we see our own hearts resisting God’s rule.”
The question remains as piercing today as it was in Saul’s court: Who will be king?
Will we cling to our own thrones, resisting God’s will, hurling our “spears” of anger and pride? Or will we follow the path of Jonathan, laying down our rights, bowing in surrender, and declaring that Jesus alone is Lord?
The throne of the heart cannot hold two rulers. One must reign.
So the question is not just ancient—it is personal, immediate, and urgent: Who will be king in your life today?
