“Then Joab sounded the trumpet, and the troops stopped pursuing Israel, for Joab halted them. They took Absalom, threw him into a big pit in the forest and piled up a large heap of rocks over him. Meanwhile, all the Israelites fled to their homes. During his lifetime Absalom had taken a pillar and erected it in the King’s Valley as a monument to himself, for he thought, ‘I have no son to carry on the memory of my name.’ He named the pillar after himself, and it is called Absalom’s Monument to this day.”—2 Samuel 18:16–18 (NIV)

“Legacy. What is a legacy?” That’s the question Alexander Hamilton asks again and again in the Broadway musical bearing his name. As bullets fly and his story hurtles toward its tragic conclusion, he wrestles with what he’s leaving behind. Is it glory, honor, or the unfinished work? “It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see,” he says. And then, in the show’s haunting final moments, his rival and one-time friend Aaron Burr wonders aloud: “If I throw away my shot, is this how you’ll remember me? What if this bullet is my legacy?” The whole show is wrapped in that tension—who lives, who dies, who tells their story?

I think we all wrestle with the thought of our legacy at some point. My dad left a legacy of generosity, a deep love for Scripture, and a passion to serve others, especially his children. And now, as a human, husband, father, and minister, I think more and more about what legacy I’ll leave behind. I truly hope my legacy could be summed up much like Enoch’s in Genesis 5:24: “And Danny walked with God; and he was not, for God took him.” I want my legacy to be that I walked with Jesus, that I was a man of God’s Word, a faithful father, and a servant who lived for His glory and not my own.

But what about Absalom? What legacy did he leave? Today’s passage gives us the answer. Joab blows the trumpet, the war ends, and Absalom’s body—this once-adored prince, flawless in appearance and full of promise—is tossed in a pit in the woods and buried under a pile of stones. It was more akin to a pauper’s grave than a prince’s procession. 

No royal funeral. 

No family present. 

No tears from the people. 

No honor. 

Just a tragic, humiliating end. But the writer adds a footnote: Sometime before he died, Absalom, aware he had no sons, built a monument to himself in the King’s Valley and named it after himself—Absalom’s Monument. He wanted to be remembered. Like Hamilton, Absalom wanted a legacy to be remembered by. But the legacy he left wasn’t a monument of glory—it was a cautionary tale. Not one of honor, but of heartbreak.

And yet, it didn’t have to be this way. A man obsessed with image and inheritance ends up buried in a field like a criminal. His life is a reminder that we can spend years and years trying to build a monument to ourselves—a business, a fortune, a name, a following—and still end up forgotten and forsaken. We can chase legacy apart from God and lose everything that matters. Sadly, too many people take this approach to life—including many who call themselves Christians, many who work in ministry, and even those who hold the title of pastor. 

But the good news is that this passage and overall saga we’ve watched unfold doesn’t just point us to Absalom’s broken legacy. More than that, it actually points us to a greater legacy, a greater story. You see, there’s another Son of David who hung from a tree, pierced, and buried. But unlike Absalom, Jesus was completely innocent, fully obedient, and perfectly humble. He didn’t build a monument to Himself; He made Himself nothing. He came to bring good news to the poor, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and to open the prison to those who are bound; to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor (Luke 4:18–19). He came not “to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Matthew 20:28 NIV). 

And because of that, God gave Him the name above every name and established the throne of his kingdom forever. His death wasn’t the end—it was the moment He made a way for us to have a place in this promised everlasting kingdom. His legacy isn’t a dusty stone pillar—it’s resurrection, reconciliation, eternal victory, and the glory of God made visible.

So, where does this leave us? It’s a challenge to not live like Absalom and to not build temporal monuments to ourselves. It’s a reminder to not fight for our own name, but to live with Jesus, for Jesus, and like Jesus. It’s a call to walk humbly, love deeply, and serve sacrificially. 

Much like Hamilton sung, let your legacy be the seeds of the gospel of Christ that you plant in others. Let it be the people you point to Jesus. Let it be said of you what mattered most: that you walked with God. Because in the end, the only glory worth chasing is the kind that reflects His.

Pause: What do you want your legacy to be? Whose name are you really trying to build—yours or Jesus’?

Practice: Write your own obituary—what you hope people say about you when you’re gone. Then ask yourself: “Does how I’m living today actually lead to that kind of legacy?”

Pray: Heavenly Father, I don’t want to leave behind a hollow monument. I want my life to point to You, to the glory and salvation found in Your Son. Teach me to walk humbly, serve faithfully, and love deeply. Help me surrender the need to be remembered and live instead to make You known. May my legacy be Your glory. In Jesus’ name, I pray. Amen.