I Samuel 28

Hook

Remember that moment at camp when the sun would start to dip behind the pines, the air would turn crisp, and the counselors would gather us around the fire? We’d sing “Ozi v’zimrat Yah”—my strength and song—and for a few minutes, everything felt certain. The world was clearly divided into the "good" and the "adventure." But growing up, we learn that life isn’t always a clear-cut trail map. Sometimes, like King Saul in I Samuel 28, we find ourselves standing in the dark, calling out for answers that aren't coming, wondering if our own "strength and song" have left us.

Context

• The Political Tightrope: David is in a sticky spot, living as a refugee among the Philistines. Achish, the Philistine leader, trusts David, but David is playing a dangerous game of double-allegiance, caught between his loyalty to his own people and his survival as an exile.
• The Spiritual Silence: Saul is at the end of his rope. Israel is facing a massive Philistine invasion, and God has gone silent—no dreams, no prophets, no Urim. It’s the ultimate "spiritual camping trip" where the fire has gone out, the flashlight has died, and you’re left stumbling in the brush.
• The Outdoors Metaphor: Think of this chapter like a mountain pass during a sudden, violent thunderstorm. You’ve lost your bearings, your compass is spinning, and in a moment of desperation, you turn to a path you were told never to take, hoping it will lead you to shelter.

Text Snapshot

"And Saul inquired of God, but God did not answer him, either by dreams or by Urim or by prophets. Then Saul said to his courtiers, 'Find me a woman who consults ghosts...' ...The woman answered him, 'You know what Saul has done... So why are you laying a trap for me?' Saul swore to her by God: 'As God lives, you won’t get into trouble over this.'" — I Samuel 28:6–10

Close Reading

Insight 1: The Trap of Desperation

The most haunting part of this scene isn't the ghost of Samuel; it’s Saul’s isolation. Notice that Saul, the King of Israel, is disguised. He has stripped away his crown and his identity, yet he is still the same man who once banned the very practice he is now begging for. As the Malbim notes in his commentary on I Samuel 28:1, there is a constant tension between what we say and what we do. Saul is so terrified of the Philistines that he is willing to violate his own law, his own conscience, and his own connection to the Divine just to hear something.

In our own lives, we often hit these "Saul moments." We face a crisis—a job loss, a family rift, a health scare—and when we don't get the answer we want from the places we usually look (our community, our prayer, our logic), we start looking for "ghosts." We turn to quick fixes, self-destructive habits, or desperate bargains. We look for a shortcut to peace because the silence of God or the silence of a difficult situation feels unbearable. Saul’s tragedy is that he is so busy looking for a sign that he forgets he is the king; he has lost his agency to his own fear.

Insight 2: The Kindness of the Witch of En-dor

Here is the twist that feels so human, so "campfire-real": The most compassionate person in this entire chapter is the "witch." After the terrifying encounter with the spirit of Samuel, Saul is physically shattered. He hasn't eaten; he has collapsed on the ground, literally drained of his strength. The woman, despite having every reason to fear or despise the King who outlawed her livelihood, refuses to let him leave in that state. She insists on feeding him, slaughtering her only calf to bake him bread.

She sees a human being in pain, not a political figure or a law-breaker. As the Alshich explores the complexity of loyalties in this text, we see that while the kings and commanders are busy plotting wars and betrayals, this woman acts with simple, radical hospitality. She reminds us that even when we are at our lowest, even when we feel like we’ve "lost" the battle, there is a fundamental human dignity that remains. Often, the "answers" we seek aren't prophecies or cosmic secrets; they are simple acts of nourishment—someone saying, "Eat, get your strength back, and then you can face the road." We translate this to our homes by remembering that when a family member is in a dark, "Saul-like" place of panic, the most holy thing we can do isn't to give them a lecture or a "prophetic" answer, but to offer a seat at the table and a bit of bread.

Micro-Ritual

The "Bread of Strength" Moment: On Friday night, before you even start the Kiddush, take a small piece of challah or bread and hand it to someone you care about—a partner, a roommate, a child, or even yourself if you are alone. Say this simple line: "May you have the strength to face what comes next."

It’s a tiny, earthy nod to the woman of En-dor. It acknowledges that the week might have been long, silent, or scary, and that before we can "do" Shabbat, we need to be physically present and cared for.

Singing/Niggun: Try humming a slow, grounding melody like this: “Lo, lo, lo, lo... Yishmercha... Lo, lo, lo, lo... Yishmercha...” (based on the rhythm of “Hashkiveinu”). Keep it low, like the embers of a dying fire, finding the rhythm of your own breath.

Chevruta Mini

1. The Silence: Have you ever felt like Saul, waiting for a sign that didn't come? When we don't get the answer we want, how do we keep from "consulting the ghosts" of our own anxieties?
2. The Bread: Think about the woman of En-dor. What is the "stall-fed calf" you can offer to someone in your life who is feeling broken or defeated right now? How can we provide strength to others when we aren't even sure of our own path?

Takeaway

Saul’s story is a warning against letting fear dictate our theology. When the world goes silent, the answer isn't to chase ghosts—it's to return to the earth, to feed one another, and to find the strength to stand up and walk into the next day, even when the horizon looks like war. You don't need a prophecy to be a source of strength for someone else.