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King Saul was Israel’s first king—a natural leader from a good family, blessed with wealth, power, and influence. Though he began with humility, Saul lacked the character of a true king. Over time, jealousy, insecurity, and pride consumed him. If someone as religious and privileged as Saul could fall so dramatically, so can we. How does that happen? Pride deafens us to the truth of God’s Word and blinds us to who we really are. We will explore (1) the deafness of pride, (2) the blindness of pride, (3) the root cause of our pride, and finally, (4) the healing of our pride.

The Deafness of Pride

In verse 18, God commands Saul to engage the Amalekites, a neighboring enemy tribe known for extreme violence and greed, in battle. As an act of justice, God instructs him to destroy everyone and everything. But Saul disobeys by keeping the best livestock and taking King Agag of the Amalekites as prisoner. In an agrarian society, livestock meant wealth, and capturing a rival king was a power move. Saul was trying to make himself a “king of kings.” His greed and pride mirrored the very evil he was sent to judge. Grieved, God tells the prophet Samuel to reject Saul as king.

When Samuel confronts Saul in verse 19, he asks, “Why did you not obey the LORD?” The Hebrew text literally says, “Why did you not listen to the voice of the LORD?” In verse 20, Saul insists, But I did obey the LORD. God said to destroy them, and I did. We’re going to celebrate with a great sacrifice. In verse 22, Samuel responds, “To obey is better than sacrifice.” In other words, you haven’t really listened until God’s Word actually shapes you, changes you, and molds you into obedience. Samuel is saying that it’s very possible to hear something on one level and yet to completely miss it at a deeper level. But because you did listen on one level, it is perfectly possible, like Saul, to believe you did obey. Pride deafens you to the truth of God’s Word and to the reality of who you are. It doesn’t cause your physical hearing to go bad; rather, it leads you to choose not to hear. Saul was confused: Destroy the plunder? Think what that could do for our wealth—we could even make a sacrifice! My men worked so hard for this. Why would God withhold these good things from us? He must not be for us. This is the same lie from the Garden of Eden—there is a fundamental distrust that God doesn’t know what’s best for you or have your best interests at heart. That spiritual deafness is what pride produces.

The Blindness of Pride

Sin and pride also make us blind. How does this happen?

First, you end up trying to “game the system.” When you game the system, you appear compliant to the laws and rules on the surface, but you neglect the purpose of why those rules are there in the first place. You exploit the “system” for the benefits you can draw from it while having no intention of actually listening to the laws. When Samuel reaches Saul in verse 13, Saul greets him: “The LORD bless you! I have carried out the LORD’s instructions.” At that point, Samuel has not said anything about why he was there or about Saul’s disobedience. But Saul immediately says, I obeyed, Samuel. Why? His conscience is stirring. He knew he didn’t obey. But he’s closing his eyes to his conscience. Instead of coming clean—admitting failure—he’s determined to come out clean. There is no confession.

Many in the church say, I believe in Jesus as Lord and Savior, yet their lives are actually driven by the pursuit of wealth, power, and approval. Outwardly compliant, they use the appearance of faith to gain acceptance while living in quiet defiance of God’s Word. It often begins subtly. When you’re new to church, you’re eager to grow. But then comfort sets in. New friendships form, maybe a relationship begins. Even when others lovingly warn you about drifting, rushing, or isolating, you grow defensive. You said you wanted accountability, but now you resist it. On one level, you agree. On another, you’re blind. Something else has captured your heart. You’re gaming the system. You look obedient, but you’re chasing what you really want.

In Ezekiel 14, God says of Israel’s elders: “These men have set up idols in their hearts and put wicked stumbling blocks before their faces.” The stumbling block is an internal idol that shapes how you see and reason. That’s why truth can’t break through—the idol controls your vision. Jesus echoes this in Matthew 6: “If your eyes are bad, your whole body will be full of darkness.” You may seem humble, but if you only listen to God when it serves your agenda, that’s not obedience—it’s religious idolatry. Pastor Tim Keller once told a story from the end of World War II. In the German town of Ohrdruf, U.S. forces discovered a concentration camp where Nazi soldiers had tried to burn 2,000 bodies before the Allies arrived. Even the battle-hardened General George Patton vomited at the sight. The townspeople claimed ignorance, yet those same soldiers had come into their town to drink and boast of their deeds. So Patton forced them to see the bodies. That night, the mayor and his wife hanged themselves. The note they left said, “We didn’t know—but we knew.” They had lived in denial. Outwardly ignorant, inwardly complicit. Just like the idols of our hearts—we pretend not to see, but deep down, we know.

In the movie Shutter Island, U.S. Marshal Teddy Daniels investigates a missing person only to discover the truth he’s been avoiding: he is the one truly lost. His real identity is too painful to face, so he dissociates from reality. In the final scene, he asks, “Which would be worse, to live as a monster or to die as a good man?” He’s saying, I didn’t know the truth. But now that I know, I don’t want to know. It’s often easier to live a lie than to face who we really are. In that way, the Bible says we’re all citizens of Shutter Island. We suppress the truth, silence our consciences, and deny the depth of our sin. We game the system—using church, service, and community as ways to keep Jesus at arm’s length rather than submit to him. The most effective way to keep Christ irrelevant is to pretend we don’t need him.

Second, you end up blame-shifting. In verse 15, Saul says, The sheep and cattle? The soldiers brought them. It’s deflection: It’s their fault—I couldn’t stop them. In Hebrew, he doesn’t even say “the soldiers”—just “they.” No names. No accountability. Just vague blame to avoid facing yourself by focusing on others. Saul won’t own his sin because he can’t see it. He’s blind. He’s self-deceived.

Third, you end up making yourself out to be more noble than you really are. In verse 21, Saul admits, Okay, I did keep the animals, but we were going to make a huge sacrifice to God! Sometimes we go to great lengths to appear godly—especially to silence our own conscience. This is the difference between the gospel and mere religion. Real faith leads you to own sin. Religious faith hides behind goodness. Like Saul, we can use worship, service, and sacrifice not to repent, but to avoid repentance—doing more to cover guilt instead of confessing it. But unless you stop shifting blame, excusing yourself, and trying to look more noble than you are—you will remain blind and deaf to your sin. And when that happens, any of us are capable of anything.

Question 1A: Which part of the first two sections do you find most personally challenging, unsettling, or convicting? Why?

Question 1B: What “stumbling block” might be shaping or distorting how you interpret truth right now?

Question 1C: Where in your life might you be saying, “I didn’t know—but I knew”? (Are there areas of compromise you quietly excuse while outwardly claiming ignorance?)

The Root Cause of Our Pride

In verse 17, Samuel says to Saul, “Although you were once small in your own eyes, did you not become the head of the tribes of Israel?” Why did he say this? In verse 12, when Samuel first goes looking for Saul, he is told that Saul has gone to Carmel to set up a monument in his own honor. Samuel is saying, Saul, you were once small in your own eyes, but all you needed was the LORD. He anointed you and made you great. That wasn’t enough for you? Why do we feel the need to look impressive? Why do we chase certain roles, lifestyles, or recognition? They’re monuments. We build them to prove we matter. That’s why Samuel says in verse 23, “Rebellion is like the sin of divination, and arrogance like the evil of idolatry.” Saul minimized his sin to maximize his own glory. That’s arrogance. But underneath it is insecurity: he was small in his own eyes. He needed monuments to feel significant. Why? Because God’s love wasn’t enough for him.

If God’s love defined your worth—if his delight in you was your monument—then you could face the truth about yourself. Your sin wouldn’t destroy you, surprise you, or make you afraid. Why? Because God isn’t surprised by your sin. He doesn’t turn away from you because of it. And it will never undo his love. But if your monument is built on your own goodness—I’ve always done the right thing—then even the smallest critique will crush you. That’s when you go deaf. You can’t hear truth anymore. God’s voice gets pushed to the edges of your life, where it won’t interfere. You still want to stay connected to God, but only at a distance—just enough to feel safe, but not enough to surrender. So you go blind to who you truly are. That was Saul. He heard the music of the gospel, but not enough to make him dance. He knew God had anointed him, honored him, called him—but it didn’t change him. He was blind. He was deaf. He disobeyed, ignored warnings, silenced his conscience. And then he tried to game the system: shifting blame, making excuses, staging religious performance. He built a monument—work that, in ancient times, was reserved for slaves. Saul, though a king, had become a slave—to his pride, to his insecurity, to his need to be seen as righteous.

If the gospel isn’t your ultimate monument, something else will be. You’ll say, This defines me. I’ll work for it. But what you think will make you will actually break you. It will twist your life, enslave you, and eventually crush you. That’s what happened to Saul. His idol didn’t just cost him peace—it cost him his life, his son’s life, and the entire kingdom.

Question 2A: What are the monuments you’re most tempted to build in your own life to prove your worth or justify your existence?

Question 2B: How do you typically respond to critique or correction? Do you see in yourself the impulse to defend, deflect, or build up a narrative that preserves your image? What does that suggest about what you’re trusting in?

The Healing of Our Pride

In verse 17, Samuel says to Saul, “The LORD anointed you king over Israel.” In other words—Saul, you forgot. You forgot God. Has he been pushed so far to the margins that he’s now just a faint whisper? But we have a far greater resource: Jesus Christ. In the Garden of Gethsemane, he prayed, “Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.” That cup was God’s wrath. In Eden, Adam distrusted and disobeyed, but in Gethsemane, Jesus trusted and obeyed—even unto death. “To obey is better than sacrifice,” Samuel told Saul. But Jesus, the only truly obedient One, was still sacrificed. Why? For us. He is our resource and substitute. The author of Hebrews writes, “With burnt offerings and sin offerings you were not pleased… I have come to do your will.” Jesus says, “Where my people failed, I will obey.” And through his will, we are made holy—not because of our obedience, but because of his. It’s as if we obeyed. It’s as if we died. His record becomes ours.

Why does that matter? Because all our striving, all our monument-building—our need for validation, our fear of critique—it all flows from a thirst for righteousness. And only Christ can quench it. He never manipulated, never shifted blame, never tried to appear noble—he was noble. Perfectly obedient. And yet, he was beaten, mocked, abandoned. On the cross he cried, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”—as if God went blind and deaf to him so he could open his eyes and ears to us. 2 Corinthians 5 says, “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” Jesus gave up glory and descended into wrath—not for disobedience, but for perfect obedience. He went all the way. Why? Hebrews 12 tells us that he heard the voice of the Lord, and he trusted, and he saw: “For the joy set before him.” He saw something that made obedience worth everything—you! Safe in the arms of the Father. Reconciled. Beloved. That was his joy.

To believe in Jesus is to look to the cross as our ultimate monument. It humbles us, because we did nothing to earn or build it. But it also brings confidence, because it cannot be undone. It tells the truth about who we are, and it tells a greater truth about God’s love: Jesus, the great King, became small, so that we who are small might be great in God’s sight. No other monument can do that. Every other monument demands your effort, but this one was raised for you. Hide in its shadow. When Jesus said, “It is finished,” he meant the debt is paid. Your work isn’t over, but the striving to make your name great is. You’re honored, not because of your obedience or your merit or your record, but because of Jesus’ merit, Jesus’ record, Jesus’ obedience. Let that kill your pride. Let that restore your joy. Hebrews 12 says, “Fix your eyes on Jesus”—there’s sight. Hebrews 4 says, “Hear the voice of the Lord today”—there’s hearing. Then and only then can God move from the periphery of your life to the center.

Question 3: If the cross is a monument built for you, not by you, how should that change the way you view your success, failure, or need for recognition?