1 Kings 1:1 - Exposition

The chamber of sickness.

This opening chapter of 1 Kings introduces us into the privacy of a sick room. Stretched upon a couch, covered with many folds of rich Eastern drapery, we see a feeble, decrepit, attenuated man. At his side stands a fair young girl, assiduously ministering to his wants. From time to time the door opens, and prophet, priest, and warrior enter to receive his instructions; for happily the mind is not a wreck like the body. Its vigour is hardly abated, though the bodily strength is well nigh exhausted. He has but reached the appointed threescore years and ten, and yet—such have been the hardships of his life—the vital force is spent. They cover him with clothes, but he gets no heat. The flame of life is slowly but surely expiring. But we see at once that this is no ordinary room; that this is no common patient. The gorgeous apparel, the purple and fine linen, the "attendance of ministers, the standing of servants," proclaim it a king's court. And the insignia, the pomp, the profound homage proclaim that this sick man is a king. Yes, it is David, second king of Israel, but second to none in goodness and true greatness, who lies here. His chequered life, so full of romance, of chivalry, of piety, is drawing near its close. But the hour of death is preceded by a period of feebleness and decay. For sickness is no respecter of persons. It, too, like death, "thunders at the palace gates of kings and the dwellings of the poor." There is no release in that war,

"Sceptre and crown must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor common scythe and spade."

The sickness of David, then, may fittingly suggest some thoughts as to sickness in general. What, let us ask, is its purpose, what its uses? Why is it that, as a rule, a period of gradual decay precedes death? For it is worthy of remark that man alone, of all the animals, dies of disease. Among all the myriad forms of life, that is, he alone dies gradually. The lower animals, as a rule, prey upon each other. Beasts, birds, fishes, insects, all die a violent death. No sooner is one of them attacked by sickness, or enfeebled by old age, than it is dispatched and devoured by its fellows. It is thus the balance of the species is preserved. But in the case of men, sudden death is the exception. For them there remains, as a rule, a discipline of pain prior to dissolution. It is well to ask why this is. The general answer is, of course, obvious. It is because of that other life, that future reckoning which awaits men after death. Let us consider, however, in what ways sickness and pain are a preparation for the life and the judgment to come.

I. SICKNESS IS GOD 'S NOTICE TO QUIT . We should think it hard to be ejected from our home and turned into the street without due notice. We want a little time to make preparations. Especially is this the case when we are leaving our earthly tabernacle—leaving not a home , but a world. Now God has given us abundant and repeated notice in the various accidents and occurrences of life. Too often, however, both the lessons of Providence and the warnings of the preacher are unheeded. So the Lover of souls will give men a final warning, and one that they cannot mistake, cannot well disregard. They shall feel it in their own persons. Sickness shall bid them set their house in order and prepare to meet their God. A German fable tells us that once upon a time Death promised a young man that he would not summon him until he had first sent several messengers to apprize him of his coming. So the youth took his fill of pleasure, and wasted health and strength in riotous living. Presently, a fever laid him low. But as no messenger had appeared, he had no apprehensions; and when he recovered, he returned forthwith to his former sins. He then fell a prey to other maladies, but, remembering his covenant with Death, made light of them. "I am not going to die," he cried; "the first messenger has not yet come." But one day some one tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, and saw Death standing at his elbow. "Follow me." said the King of Terrors; "the hour of thy departure is come." "How is this?" exclaimed the youth; "thou art false to thy word! Thou didst promise to send me messengers, and I have seen none." "Silence!" sternly answered the Destroyer. "I have sent thee messenger after messenger. What was the fever? What was the apoplexy? What was each sickness that befel thee? Each was my herald; each was my messenger." Yes, the first use of sickness is to remind men of death. And how much they need that reminder we may learn from the case of David. He had long been familiar with death, lie was no stranger to "th' imminent deadly breach," had known many "hairbreadth 'scapes," and often there had been "but a step between his soul and death." Nay, he had once seen the Destroyer himself, seen him standing with his drawn sword ready to smite. And yet the man who had faced death, who had long carried his life in his hand, receives a final warning ere its close. That sickness, perhaps, first brought home to him his mortality, first cried to him, "Thus saith the LORD GOD , Remove the diadem and take off the crown" ( Ezekiel 21:26 ). But

II. SICKNESS IS GOD 'S WAY OF WEANING MEN FROM THE WORLD . It is natural to cling to life; but it is necessary we should be made willing to leave it. The wrench is felt the less when some of the ties which bind us to earth have been sundered: when life loses its attractions. It is the office of pain and sickness to make life valueless, to make men anxious to depart. How often it happens that men who at the beginning of illness will not hear of death are presently found praying for their release. Such are the "uses of adversity." An old writer compares affliction to the bitter unguent which nursing mothers who would wean their offspring sometimes put upon their breast. A few weeks on the couch of pain, and we soon cry out that life is not worth the living.

III. SICKNESS IS GOD 'S DISCIPLINE FOR PARADISE . True it is that all "earthly care is a heavenly discipline." All the ills that flesh is heir to are designed to be the instruments of our perfection. Like the Captain of our salvation, we are "made perfect through sufferings." For us, as for Him, "the cross is the ladder to heaven." Those are two suggestive words, which only differ by one letter— παθήματα , μαθήματα , "afflictions, instructions." But while all affliction is a school, the last illness should be the finishing school. At the last assay the furnace must he heated more than it has been wont to be. "I have learnt more," said Mr. Cecil, "within these curtains in six weeks than I have learnt in all my life before." The chamber of sickness is an enforced Retreat. There, ears "that the preacher could not school" are compelled to listen. There, "lips say 'God be pitiful' which ne'er said 'God be praised.' There, many have learnt for the first time to know themselves. And how necessary is this last discipline David's sick chamber may teach us; for he had already had his share of troubles. His life had been largely spent in. the school of adversity." In journeyings often, in peril of robbers," etc. ( 2 Corinthians 11:25 , 2 Corinthians 11:26 ), these words aptly describe his early career. And even since he ascended the throne, how often has the sword gone through his soul. Amnon, Absalom, Tamer, Abner, Amasa, what tragedies are connected with these names. Few men have experienced such a long and bitter discipline as he; and it would seem, too, to have accomplished its world. If we may judge by some of his later Psalms, full of contrition, of humility, of devout breathings after God, that sweet and sanctified soul had "learned obedience by the things which he suffered." But he is not spared the final chastening. The sweet singer of Israel, the man after God's own heart, must go awhile into the gloom and the silence of the sick room, there to be made fully "meet for the inheritance of the saints in light." Men often pray to be spared a long sickness, often commiserate those who experience one. But we have learned that it has its uses. We see that it is a last chance given to men: a last solemn warning, a final chastening to prepare them for the beatific vision. The Neapolitans call one of the wards of their hospital L'Antecamera della Motre —the ante chamber of death. It is thus that we should regard every "chamber of sickness."

1 Kings 1:5 sqq. with 1 Kings 2:13 sqq

Adonijah's history and its lessons.

I. HE WAS A SPOILT CHILD .—"His father had not displeased him at any time." ( 1 Kings 1:7 ). There is no greater unkindness and injustice to a child than over indulgence. The child is the father of the man. The boy who has all his own way will certainly want it in after life, and will not get it, to his own disappointment and the unhappiness of all around him. He that loveth his son chasteneth him betimes. David was probably so engrossed with public cares and duties that his first care, after God—his family—was neglected. How unwise are those parents who devolve the care of their children at the most critical and impressionable time of life on domestics, who are often ill suited or unequal to the charge. One of the first duties a child demands of its parents is that it should be corrected and conquered. The will must be broken in youth. The sapling may be bent, not so the trunk. David's unwise indulgence, his sparing the rod, prepared a rod for his own and Adonijah's back. It was the sin of Eli that "his sons made themselves vile and he restrained them not." And one sin of David was that he had not checked and "displeased" this wilful son.

II. HE WAS ENDOWED BY NATURE WITH A DANGEROUS PROPERTY . "He also was a very goodly man." Gifts of form and feature, much as all admire them, and much as some covet them, are frequently a snare to their possessor. Perhaps, upon the whole, personal beauty has oftener proved a curse than a blessing. "For the most part," says Lord Bacon, "it maketh a dissolute youth." Oftener still it spoils the character. The conceit of the Platonists, that a beautiful body loves to have a beautiful soul to inhabit it, is unhappily not borne out by facts. "A pretty woman," it has been said, and it is often true, "adores herself" (Eugenie de Guerin). The natural tendency of this possession is to engender pride, selfishness, conceit, ambition. A striking exterior has often cost its possessor dear. It did both Absalom and Adonijah no good. It is worthy of notice that it was David's " goodly " sons conspired against him, and it was his " fair " daughter Tamar was dishonoured. Adonijah's face was an important factor in his history: it contributed to his ruin. It favoured, perhaps it suggested, his pretensions to the throne. He thought, no doubt, "the first in beauty should be first in might." Had he been blessed with an insignificant appearance he would probably have saved his head. As it was, courted and admired, he thought the fairest woman of her time was alone a fit match for him; and pride whispered that a man of such a presence was marked out for a king, and so urged him to his ruin. Let us teach our children to covet only "the beauty of the soul."

III. HE WAS CURSED WITH AN INORDINATE AMBITION . "I will be king." "Cursed," for it has cursed and blighted many lives. Like the ignis fatuus, it has lured men to their destruction. It has been well called "a deadly tyrant, an inexorable master." "Ambition," says the most eloquent of divines, "is the most troublesome and veratious passion that can afflict the sons of men. It is full of distractions, it teems with stratagems, and is swelled with expectations as with a tympany. It is an infinite labour to make a man's self miserable; he makes his days full of sorrow to acquire a three years' reign." What a striking illustration of these words does Adonijah's history supply. If he could but have been content to fill the second place he might have lived honoured, happy, and useful. But ambition soured and then cut short his life. How much of the misery of the world is caused by despising "that state of life unto which it has pleased God to call us" and stretching out after another for which we are not fitted. Adonijah's history teaches this lesson—Solomon may have partly drawn it from his life and death—"Pride goeth before destruction," etc.

IV. HE STOOPED TO UNWORTHY MEANS TO ATTAIN HIS OBJECT . "Chariots," "horses, fifty men to run before him." It is much like the Roman device, "Panem et circenses." History repeats itself. But these things were almost innocent compared with the measures he took when these failed. The smooth intrigue of a marriage, the employment of the king's mother as his tool, the plausible words, the semblance of resignation to the Divine will—and all this to overthrow a brother who had generously spared his life. And all this was the outcome of ambition—ambition which makes men trample on the living and the dead. Alas! we never know to what base courses we may be reduced if we once embark in immoral enterprises. Adonijah's "I will be king" led to conspiracy, rebellion, intrigue, ingratitude; to defiance of a father, of a brother, of God.

V. HE WAS NOT WITHOUT WARNING , BUT IT WAS IN VAIN . The failure of his first conspiracy, the abject terror which followed, the flight to the sanctuary, the terrified clinging to the horns of the altar, the piteous entreaty for life—these things should have been remembered, should have "changed his hand and checked his pride." Still more, his brother's magnanimity, "there shall not an hair of him fall to the earth;" or, if not that, his message, "If wickedness be found in him he shall die." All are of no avail. The passion for empire, like the passion for play, is almost incurable. Adonijah was playing for a throne: he staked honour, safety, piety—and lost. He played again—and this time a drawn sword was suspended over his head—he staked his life, and lost it.

VI. HE WAS SUDDENLY CUT OFF , AND THAT WITHOUT REMEDY . And this was the end of the spoiled child, of the "curled darling;" this the end of his pomp and circumstance, of his flattery and intrigue, of his steadfast resistance of the will of heaven—that the sword of the headsman smote him that he died. Instead of the throne, the tomb; instead of the sceptre, the sword. Chariots and horses, visions of empire, visions of love—one fell thrust of the steel put an end to all that. Died Adonijah as a fool dieth, ingloriously, ignobly. "When we are dead, all the world sees who was the fool." Adonijah's death was the fitting and natural conclusion of his life. He has sowed to the wind: what wonder if he reaps to the whirlwind.