The Spirit Of The Anointed

March 27, 2026

There is a quiet moment in the hills of Bethlehem where everything begins, though it does not look like a beginning at all. A young shepherd stands among his brothers, overlooked until the prophet calls him forward. Oil is poured over his head, slow and deliberate, marking him for something he cannot yet fully understand. The scent lingers in the air longer than the moment itself, and then, almost as quickly as it came, the ceremony ends. The prophet leaves. The family returns to what they were doing. And David, newly anointed, walks back into the fields.The sheep are still there. The same wind moves across the same hills. Nothing outward has changed, yet everything inward has been set in motion. The anointing was real, but the throne was not. Not yet. And in that space—between what was spoken and what would one day be seen—the spirit of David begins to take shape.

It is a spirit that does not rush.

Scripture unfolds his story with a patience that mirrors the man himself. In the pages of 1 Samuel, the anointing is recorded, but so is the return to obscurity. In 1 Samuel and beyond, the victories come, but so does the pursuit. The songs are sung in his honor, yet the spears are thrown in his direction. The same king he is destined to replace becomes the one who hunts him through wilderness and cave. And David runs. Not as a man abandoned, but as a man being formed. There are nights in those caves where silence stretches long and questions echo louder than certainty. The promise of God does not disappear, but it does not hurry either. It waits, just as David waits. Not passively, but with a posture that reveals something deeper than ambition. There is a restraint in him that is not born from weakness, but from reverence.

This is where the contrast begins to emerge.

The spirit of Saul, introduced earlier in 1 Samuel, carries a different weight. Saul was chosen, anointed, and elevated. He stood head and shoulders above others, a king who looked the part before he lived the part. But somewhere along the path, the internal life failed to keep pace with the external role. His decisions began to bend toward self-preservation rather than surrender. When instruction came, he adjusted it. When correction came, he resisted it. The throne, once a gift, became something he gripped tightly, as though it were his to keep rather than God’s to steward.

The spirit of Saul reaches.

It reaches to hold what was given, even when it is being taken. It reaches to justify, to protect image, to maintain position. It cannot rest in process because it is anchored in possession. And when possession is threatened, fear becomes its guide.

David stands in stark contrast, not because he is without flaw, but because he understands something Saul never fully embraced. The throne is not something to be seized. It is something to be received. That truth is tested in the dim light of a cave, when opportunity presents itself in its most tempting form. Saul, unaware, steps into the very space where David hides. The moment feels almost orchestrated, as though the years of running have led to this single turning point. Those around David see it clearly. They whisper that this is the day the Lord has delivered Saul into his hands.

And for a moment, David moves.

Not to take a life, but to cut a corner of a robe. Even that small act unsettles him. Something within recoils, not because he fears Saul, but because he honors what Saul represents. The man may have lost his way, but the anointing once placed upon him still carries weight in David’s eyes. “I will not stretch out my hand against the Lord’s anointed.” It is a statement that defines him. Not just in that moment, but in the years that surround it. David refuses to shortcut what God has ordained to unfold. He will not trade process for position, even when the exchange seems justified.

This is the spirit that waits.

It is not passive. It is deeply active in unseen ways. It learns trust when outcomes are unclear. It develops strength where no audience applauds. It builds integrity in places where recognition never reaches. The wilderness, for David, is not a detour. It is the training ground where his inner life is shaped to carry the weight of what is coming. And then, generations later, another contrast emerges, this time closer to home.

Absalom, David’s own son, carries a different spirit altogether. His story, woven through 2 Samuel, reveals a man who does not wait in the same way his father once did. Absalom is charismatic, strategic, and compelling. He positions himself at the gates, winning the hearts of the people with careful words and calculated presence. Where David learned to lead without a title, Absalom learns to gather influence without permission.

The spirit of Absalom builds before it is built within.

He creates momentum, but not depth. He forms allegiance, but not alignment. His ascent is swift, but it is not rooted in the same soil that once held his father steady through years of obscurity. And because it is not rooted, it cannot endure. What is gained through self-promotion must constantly be maintained by it, and eventually, it collapses under its own weight. The contrast becomes unmistakable. Saul grasps to keep what he was given. Absalom rises to take what was not yet his.

David waits to receive what only God can give.

Each spirit reveals itself not in moments of ease, but in moments of tension. When timing stretches. When opportunity tempts. When silence lingers longer than expected. The spirit of David does not interpret delay as denial. It understands that there is a work being done beneath the surface, one that cannot be rushed without consequence. The years between anointing and assignment are not empty. They are filled with formation, often hidden, often misunderstood, but always intentional. In that space, David learns to lead without being seen, to trust without having control, and to honor even when it costs him personally. These are not lessons that can be downloaded in a moment of recognition. They are carved slowly, through experience, through restraint, through surrender.

Meaning begins to settle here, not as a sudden realization, but as a steady unfolding. The spirit a person carries will determine how they navigate the space between promise and fulfillment. It will shape whether they grasp, strive, or wait. It will define whether they build from within or construct something outward that cannot sustain the weight placed upon it. Application, then, does not rush in with urgency, but arrives with quiet clarity. It invites a deeper look inward, beyond titles, beyond aspirations, beyond visible progress. It asks what is being formed in the unseen places, where no one else is watching. It considers whether the current season, however delayed it may feel, is actually preparing something that cannot be entrusted too early.

The question is not whether there is a calling. The anointing, in its own time, makes that clear. The question is what spirit is being cultivated in the waiting. Because what is carried into the promise will determine what can be sustained within it.

And so the invitation is not to rush forward, nor to reach prematurely, but to remain where formation is still at work. To allow the process to speak, even when it is quiet. To trust that what is being built beneath the surface is not being overlooked, but intentionally crafted. The throne, in time, will come. 

But the spirit that can carry it must be ready first.

-Rob Carroll