I Samuel 10

Hook

If you spent any time in a childhood religious school classroom, you probably remember the story of Saul as a cautionary tale of tragic inadequacy. He is the first king of Israel, yes, but he is depicted as a place-holder—a tall, handsome empty suit who couldn’t handle the pressure, lost his mind, got rejected by God, and was ultimately eclipsed by the golden-boy harpist, David. The lesson you were meant to take home was simple, moralistic, and incredibly flat: Obey God’s rules, or you will end up like Saul.

It is no wonder you bounced off. Who wants to spend their limited intellectual energy on a bronze-age caricature of failure?

But what if we looked again? When we read I Samuel 10 as adults, we find something far more compelling than a Sunday-school morality play. We find a raw, deeply empathetic psychological portrait of a person experiencing a profound identity crisis. This is the story of a man who goes out to look for his father's lost donkeys and comes home with a crown he never asked for, struggling to bridge the gap between who he was and who he is suddenly expected to be.

If you have ever suffered from raging imposter syndrome, felt the terror of a sudden promotion, or tried to hide in the breakroom to avoid a spotlight you didn't seek, Saul is not a historical warning. He is your patron saint. Let’s look at this text with adult eyes and discover how a three-thousand-year-old story can help us navigate our own moments of terrifying transition.

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Context

To understand why Saul is hiding in the luggage, we need to understand the chaotic world he was born into. Here are three essential coordinates to ground us:

• The Existential Crisis of Transition: Up until this point, Israel has been a loose confederation of tribes ruled by "Judges"—charismatic, temporary military leaders who stepped up during crises and stepped down when the dust settled. But the system is failing. The borders are porous, the Philistines are encroaching, and the people are exhausted by instability. They want a king. Not because they want to be holy, but because they want to be "like all the other nations" I Samuel 8:5.
• The Reluctant Kingmaker: Samuel is the aging prophet who has spent his entire life mediating between a invisible, demanding God and a stubborn, insecure nation. He feels deeply rejected by the people’s demand for a human king. He warns them of the taxes, the conscription, and the loss of liberty that comes with monarchy. Yet, God tells him to give them what they want. Samuel is a leader forced to build the very institution he spent his life warning against.
• The Accidental Candidate: Saul is a young man from the smallest clan of the smallest tribe (Benjamin). He is physically imposing—standing head and shoulders taller than everyone else—but psychologically small. He is introduced to us not leading an army, but wandering through the hills looking for lost livestock. He is a farmhand thrust into a geopolitical drama.

Demystifying the "Instant Transformation" Misconception

In many religious traditions, there is a common, rule-heavy assumption that when God chooses you for a task, you are instantly, magically equipped to do it. We are taught that "anointing" is like a supernatural software download: once the oil touches your head, you are instantly a king, filled with absolute certainty and divine authority.

But our commentators show us that this is a complete misunderstanding of how human change actually works. Transformation is not a light switch; it is a painful, awkward negotiation between our old habits and our new responsibilities. As we will see, Saul’s anointing did not cure his self-doubt—it magnified it.

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Text Snapshot

"The spirit of God will grip you, and you will speak in ecstasy along with them; you will become a different person... As [Saul] turned around to leave Samuel, God gave him another heart... But when they looked for him, he was not to be found. They inquired of God again, 'Has the man in question come here?' And God replied, 'Yes; he is hiding among the baggage.'"

— I Samuel 10:6, I Samuel 10:9, I Samuel 10:21-22

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New Angle

Insight 1: The Psychology of "Another Heart" vs. "A Different Person"

In verse 6, Samuel promises Saul a radical transformation: "The spirit of God will grip you... you will become a different person" (venihpachta l’ish acher). Yet, when the actual transformation occurs in verse 9, the text uses a subtly different phrase: "God gave him another heart" (vayahaphoch lo Elohim lev acher).

This linguistic shift is where the psychological drama of adulthood lives.

To understand this, we must look to the 19th-century commentator, the Malbim (Meir Leibush ben Yehiel Michel Wisser), on I Samuel 10:1. The Malbim asks why Samuel performed two distinct actions during the private anointing: pouring oil on Saul’s head and kissing him.

He explains:

ויקח שמואל וכו׳ על ידי המשיחה המשיך עליו רוח גבורה ועז מלך... ועל ידי הנשיקה שהיא התדבקות רוחא ברוחא המשיך עליו שפע קדש שבזה הכין אותו לנבאות... "Through the anointing, he drew down upon him a spirit of courage and royal strength... and through the kiss, which is the cleaving of spirit to spirit, he drew down upon him a holy abundance, preparing him to prophesy..."

The Malbim is pointing to a profound dualism in human growth. The oil represents the external role—the "royal strength" needed to perform a job. The kiss represents the internal alignment—the "cleaving of spirit to spirit" that allows a person to actually inhabit their new identity.

The tragedy of Saul is that while his role changed instantly, his self-image could not keep up. Samuel promised he would become a "different person," but God, in His mercy, only gave him "another heart." Why? Because you cannot actually become a "different person" without erasing your history, your memories, and your humanity. God does not wipe Saul’s hard drive; He gives him a new capacity ("another heart") while leaving his old, fragile self intact.

Think about this in the context of adult life. When you get promoted to manager, when you bring your first child home from the hospital, or when you are suddenly thrust into the role of caregiver for an aging parent, you are expected to be a "different person." The world looks at you and sees an authority figure. But inside, you still feel like the kid who doesn't know where the lost donkeys are.

The Ralbag (Gersonides) notes on I Samuel 10:1 that the signs Samuel gave Saul—including the sudden encounter with the prophets—were necessary because:

והוא לא נסה קודם זה להיות לו יד ושם בנבואה "He had never before experienced having a hand or a name in prophecy."

Saul had no track record of greatness. He had no resume for leadership. His "other heart" was a startup operating system running on old, incompatible hardware. The lesson here is that growth is intensely uncomfortable. If you feel like an imposter in your own life, it is not because you are failing; it is because you are experiencing the gap between the "different person" the world sees and the "other heart" you are still learning to use.

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Insight 2: The Chemistry of Anointing (The Fragile Flask vs. The Enduring Horn)

We often lump all biblical anointings together, but the classical commentators were obsessed with the material culture of the text. In verse 1, Samuel takes a pach shemen—a "flask of oil"—to anoint Saul.

Metzudat Zion defines pach simply as:

פך. שם כלי מה: "A flask: the name of a certain vessel."

But the Radak (Rabbi David Kimhi) digs much deeper into the physical and symbolic nature of this container:

את פך השמן. לא היה זה השמן המשחה כי לא היו משוחים ממנו אלא מלכי בית דוד אבל שמן אפרסמון היה ואמרו שאול ויהוא שנמשחו בפך לא נמשכה מלכותן דוד ושלמה שנמשחו בקרן נמשכה מלכותן: "The flask of oil: This was not the sacred anointing oil [of the Tabernacle], for only the kings of the House of David were anointed with that. Rather, it was balsam oil. And our sages said: Saul and Jehu, who were anointed with a flask (pach), their kingdom did not endure. David and Solomon, who were anointed with a horn (keren), their kingdom endured."

Let’s unpack this brilliant distinction.

A pach is a small, fragile, earthenware flask. It is brittle. If you drop it, it shatters. A keren, on the other hand, is an animal’s horn. It is organic, durable, virtually indestructible, and grew naturally on a living creature.

The Radak is offering us a profound metaphor for the different kinds of callings we experience in life:

The Flask (Pach)	The Horn (Keren)
Fragile, brittle clay	Organic, durable bone
Temporary, situational assignment	Enduring, generational legacy
Balsam oil (sweet-smelling, volatile)	Sacred anointing oil (consecrated, lasting)
Intended for a specific, immediate crisis	Intended for the long haul

Saul was a "Flask Leader." He was called to a fragile, transitional moment in Israel's history. He was the bridge between the wild era of the Judges and the consolidated empire of David. His reign was never meant to be a permanent dynasty; it was a crisis-management assignment.

In our own lives, we often torture ourselves because we expect every project, every relationship, and every career phase to be a "Horn"—an enduring, permanent monument. But much of adult life is actually lived in the "Flask" phase.

Sometimes, you are called to be a transitional leader. You take a job to stabilize a dysfunctional department, knowing you might not be the one to run it five years from now. You step into a relationship that helps you heal, even if it isn't destined to last a lifetime. You take on a volunteer role to pull an organization through a crisis.

When we realize that Saul’s anointing was designed to be fragile, we can stop viewing his eventual failure as a personal moral collapse and start viewing it as the structural reality of his calling. The "flask" moments of our lives are not failures just because they end; they are sacred, necessary transitions that prepare the ground for the "horns" that follow.

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Insight 3: "Hiding Among the Baggage" — The Anatomy of Logistical Escapism

The climax of the public coronation in Mizpah is one of the most high-comedy, low-dignity moments in all of scripture. Samuel gathers the entire nation. He sets up a high-stakes, dramatic lottery system to select the king. The lottery narrows down from the tribe, to the clan, to the family, and finally to Saul, the son of Kish.

The crowd holds its breath. The drums roll. The winner is announced!

And... Saul is gone.

They have to ask God for a divine GPS tracking update. God replies: "Yes; he is hiding among the baggage" (hineh hu nechba el hakelim) I Samuel 10:22.

The word kelim literally means vessels, tools, baggage, or gear. Saul, a physical giant who stands a head taller than everyone else, is curled up behind a pile of suitcases, hoping the crowd will just go home if they can't find him.

Why does he hide?

He hides because the reality of his new identity has suddenly become real. In private, with Samuel, it was a wild, ecstatic dream. But standing before the demanding, expectant eyes of the public, the sheer weight of their expectations crashes down on him.

We do this every day. When we are faced with a daunting, high-stakes task—writing that book, having that difficult conversation with a partner, stepping into a leadership role—we do not usually run away to another country. Instead, we hide among our kelim.

What does modern "baggage-hiding" look like?

• It is the endless optimization of your productivity apps instead of actually starting the work.
• It is organizing your desk, cleaning your kitchen, or answering "urgent" but unimportant emails to avoid the creative vulnerability of your main project.
• It is getting lost in the logistics, the spreadsheets, and the "gear" of life because dealing with things is infinitely safer than dealing with people.

Saul’s instinct to hide is deeply human. He knew that the moment he stepped out from behind the baggage, his old life as a private citizen was over. He would have to be seen. He would have to risk failure in public. Hiding in the baggage is the ultimate defense mechanism of the overwhelmed adult: if I make myself small enough, maybe they will choose someone else.

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Insight 4: The Friction of Transformation — "Is Saul Also Among the Prophets?"

When Saul returns home after his ecstatic experience, he encounters two groups of people, and both reactions illustrate the intense friction of personal growth.

First, there are his old neighbors and acquaintances I Samuel 10:11:

"When all who knew him previously saw him speaking in ecstasy together with the prophets, the people said to one another, 'What’s happened to the son of Kish? Is Saul too among the prophets?'"

This is not a compliment. To refer to someone as "the son of [X]" without using their name was an ancient near-eastern microaggression—a way of reducing them to their pedigree. They are saying: Who does this farm boy think he is? We know his dad. We know where he comes from. He’s no prophet; he’s just Kish’s kid playing dress-up.

This is the tax of transformation. When you decide to change your life—to get sober, to change careers, to set boundaries, or to take your spiritual life seriously—the people who "knew you previously" are often the most resistant to your growth. Your change disrupts their equilibrium. It forces them to ask why they aren't growing. They want to keep you in the box they built for you.

Second, there are the "scoundrels" (or "worthless fellows") at the end of the chapter I Samuel 10:27:

"But some scoundrels said, 'How can this fellow save us?' So they scorned him and brought him no gift. But he pretended not to mind."

The Hebrew for "he pretended not to mind" is beautiful: vayehi kemacharish—literally, "and he was as one who is silent/deaf."

Saul’s silence here is his first truly kingly act. He recognizes that he cannot win over his critics with arguments or defensive posturing. He chooses selective deafness. He knows that the only answer to the cynics who ask "How can this fellow save us?" is to actually show up and do the work when the crisis arrives (which he does in the very next chapter).

When we try to grow, we will always face the sneers of those who want us to stay small, and the cynicism of those who doubt our capacity. Saul teaches us that the correct response to this friction is not to argue, but to practice vayehi kemacharish—to hold our peace, step out from the baggage, and let our actions do the talking.

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Low-Lift Ritual

The "Baggage Check" (A 2-Minute Practice)

We cannot always control when we are called to step up, but we can control how long we stay hidden in the luggage. This week, when you feel overwhelmed by your responsibilities or paralyzed by imposter syndrome, try this two-minute ritual.

                  THE 2-MINUTE BAGGAGE CHECK
                  
  [ 0:00 - 0:30 ]  IDENTIFY THE "KELIM" (THE BAGGAGE)
                   What task, app, or logistical detail are
                   you currently hiding behind to avoid a
                   moment of vulnerability?
                            │
                            ▼
  [ 0:30 - 1:00 ]  ACKNOWLEDGE THE EXPOSURE
                   Take a deep breath and name the fear:
                   "I am hiding because I am afraid of 
                   being seen / failing / being inadequate."
                            │
                            ▼
  [ 1:00 - 2:00 ]  THE "STEP-OUT"
                   Physically close the distracting tab,
                   put down the phone, or step away from
                   the clutter. Take one small, direct
                   action toward the thing you are avoiding.

Why This Matters

This ritual matters because it honors Saul’s humanity without repeating his mistake. Saul stayed in the baggage until they dragged him out. By practicing the Baggage Check, you take agency over your own exposure. You acknowledge that it is okay to feel small, but you choose to stand up anyway—even if you are still shaking.

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Chevruta Mini

Chevruta is the ancient Jewish practice of studying texts in pairs, using dialogue to sharpen our understanding. Grab a friend, a partner, or a colleague, and discuss these two questions:

1. The Fragile vs. The Durable: Think about your current professional or personal life. Are you currently in a "Flask" (Pach) phase—a fragile, temporary, transitional role—or a "Horn" (Keren) phase—a durable, long-term legacy role? How does changing your perspective on which phase you are in change how you measure your success?
2. The Baggage of Choice: What is your personal, go-to "baggage" (kelim) that you hide behind when you are feeling overwhelmed? Is it endless research, physical tidying, social media scrolling, or over-preparing? How can you help those around you recognize when they are hiding in their own baggage without causing them shame?

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Takeaway

The story of Saul in I Samuel 10 is not a lecture on obedience; it is a mirror held up to the terrifying process of human growth. It reminds us that:

• You do not need to be fully formed to begin. God gave Saul "another heart," not a perfect, finished identity. We grow into our roles; we do not wait to be perfect before we accept them.
• Fragility is not failure. Being a "Flask" leader is just as sacred as being a "Horn" leader. Some of our most important work is done in the temporary, brittle transitions of life.
• We all want to hide sometimes. Hiding in the baggage is a normal, human response to the weight of expectation. The goal is not to never hide, but to hear the call, step out into the light, and find the courage to stand a head taller than our fears.

You weren't wrong to find the childhood version of this story flat. But now, as an adult who knows what it feels like to carry the weight of transition, you can see Saul for who he truly is: a beautifully flawed, deeply human pioneer of the complicated inner life.

Stop hiding in the luggage. Your people are waiting for you.