I Samuel 28

Hook

Picture this: It is the final night of the camp season. The giant bonfire that sustained your songs, your laughter, and your wildest dreams for eight weeks has burned down to a bed of glowing, deep-red embers. The woods around you are pitch-black, and the summer air is beginning to carry that first, sharp whisper of autumn chill. You are sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with people who know your soul, and someone starts hum-singing a wordless, haunting niggun—perhaps that classic, slow-climbing melody of longing and hope:

“Yai-lai-lai, lai-lai-lai-lai, yai-lai-lai…”

Voice Cues:
Low, searching register:   [Yai-lai-lai, lai-lai-lai...]
Climbing with intensity:   [YAI-LAI-LAI, LAI-LAI-LAI!]
Resolving softly:          [Yai-lai-lai...]

In that moment, you feel suspended between two worlds. You are caught between the warmth of the fire and the cold, vast dark of the forest; between the safety of the camp bubble and the looming reality of the "real world" waiting for you tomorrow. You want to hold onto the light, but the darkness is inevitable.

This is the exact emotional landscape of 1 Samuel 28. It is a text of shadows, of unanswered questions, and of the desperate lengths we go to when our spiritual fires have burned down to ash. It is "campfire Torah" with grown-up legs—a story about what we do when the lights go out, and how we find our way back to ourselves when the divine voice goes completely silent.

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Context

To understand the high-stakes drama of this chapter, we need to orient ourselves in the wild terrain of the Land of Israel during a moment of massive political and spiritual transition:

• The Political Tightrope: David is living in exile in the land of the Philistines, specifically in the city of Ziklag. He is playing a dangerous game of double-allegiance, pretending to serve the Philistine king Achish while secretly protecting his own people. Now, a massive, decisive war is looming, and David is being forced to show his hand.
• The Spiritual Blackout: Samuel—the great prophet, judge, and spiritual anchor of Israel—has died. King Saul, who has long struggled with paranoia and a crumbling relationship with God, finds himself utterly abandoned. The divine channels are completely dead: no dreams, no prophets, and no sacred oracles.
• The Metaphor of the Midnight Canopy: Imagine trying to navigate a dense, old-growth forest at midnight without a headlamp. The canopy is so thick that not even starlight breaks through. Every step is an act of blind, terrifying guesswork, and every rustle of leaves sounds like an ambush. This is Saul's mental state as he stands on the precipice of his final battle.

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Text Snapshot

Here is the beating heart of our text, where Saul takes a desperate leap into the forbidden dark:

"When Saul saw the Philistine force, his heart trembled with fear. 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, so that I can go to her and inquire through her.' And his courtiers told him that there was a woman in En-dor who consulted ghosts. Saul disguised himself; he put on different clothes and set out with two men. They came to the woman by night..." — 1 Samuel 28:5-8

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Close Reading

Let us dive deep into the text and the classical commentaries to uncover the rich, complex layers of this narrative. We will look at two profound insights that speak directly to our lives, our relationships, and how we build our homes.

Insight 1: The Tightrope of Double Belonging

The chapter opens not with Saul, but with David, who is caught in a psychological vise. The commentary of Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz on 1 Samuel 28:1 points out a critical piece of the puzzle. This is not just another minor border skirmish or a local raid; this is an all-out, decisive war. King Achish of the Philistines looks at David and says, "You know, of course, that you and your men must march out with my forces."

Imagine the dread in David's heart. He has been acting as a double agent, and now he is being commanded to draw his sword against his own brothers, against the very people he is destined to rule.

How does David respond? He says, "You surely know what your servant will do" 1 Samuel 28:2. It is a masterpiece of ambiguous diplomacy. He doesn't say, "I will slaughter the Israelites for you," nor does he say, "I refuse." He leaves it entirely open to interpretation.

To understand the genius and the agony of this moment, we must turn to the Alshich (Rabbi Moshe Alshich, the great 16th-century Kabbalist and commentator of Safed) on 1 Samuel 28:1. The Alshich asks: Why does Achish use the double language of yadoa teda ("you shall surely know" or "knowing, you will know")? And why does David respond with lachen atah teda ("therefore, you shall know")?

The Alshich explains that Achish was playing a highly sophisticated game of psychological chess. Achish was deeply suspicious of David. He worried that if David knew about the battle plans too far in advance, David would send secret messengers to King Saul and the Israelite army, tipping them off and preparing them for the attack. Therefore, Achish kept David in the dark until the very last moment. Achish's yadoa teda means: "You might have been kept in the dark until now, but now you are going to know, because you are marching in the center of my camp."

But David, with incredible presence of mind, flips the script. He says: Lachen atah teda—"Therefore, you shall know what your servant will do." The Alshich notes that the word lachen ("therefore") is a term of consequence. David is saying to Achish: "It is actually a good thing you kept me in the dark. Because if you had left me behind in Ziklag, your heart would have been trembling with anxiety during the battle, wondering if I was going to attack your cities while your soldiers were away, or if I was going to ambush you from behind. By forcing me to march with you, therefore you will have peace of mind, because you will see exactly what I am doing at all times."

David takes his precarious, highly compromised position and frames it as an asset. But notice what Achish does in response: "In that case... I will appoint you my bodyguard for life" 1 Samuel 28:2.

The Hebrew term here is shomer l'roshi—literally, "the guardian of my head."

The Malbim (Rabbi Meir Leibush ben Yehiel Michel Wisser) on 1 Samuel 28:1 unpacks this brilliantly. Why does Achish make David his personal bodyguard instead of sending him to the front lines with the general infantry? The Malbim explains:

"Achish did not want David to go out among the general army, because he feared that David would not want to fight against Israel, or that the Philistine soldiers would not trust him. However, to guard the head of the king—in this, Achish trusted David’s personal loyalty and his legendary bravery."

Achish isolates David. He pulls him out of the collective and places him in a position of intense, hyper-visible personal responsibility. David is no longer just a soldier; he is the "guardian of the head" of the enemy king.

Bringing It Home: The "Bodyguard" of the Household

How often do we find ourselves in David's shoes in our modern lives? We live in a world of complex, overlapping, and sometimes conflicting loyalties. We are pulled between our professional lives, our community obligations, our personal values, and our families.

Sometimes, the "kings" of our professional or social worlds demand our total allegiance. They want to make us their shomer l'roshi—the guardians of their heads. They want our minds, our late-night emails, our weekend energy, and our constant presence. They want us to march in their army, even when it feels like it is at the expense of our own souls or our own people.

David teaches us the art of holy ambiguity and boundaries. He teaches us that when we are caught in the tightrope of double belonging, we do not have to give away our inner secrets. We can protect our core identity.

In our homes, we must ask ourselves: What are we guarding? Are we acting as the bodyguards for external demands, or are we guarding the "head" of our own household—our marriages, our children, our spiritual peace?

Sometimes, like David, we have to play the game of the world with skill and diplomacy, but we must never forget where our true home lies. We must preserve our "Ziklag"—our private sanctuary—even when we are marching in the middle of a foreign camp.

Insight 2: Seeking the Ghost of Who We Used to Be

Now we turn to Saul, and the scene shifts to the pitch-black night of En-dor. The contrast between David and Saul in this chapter is devastating. David is navigating the darkness with sharp, strategic brilliance; Saul is drowning in it.

The text tells us that Saul is terrified. The Philistine army is gathered at Shunem, and Saul's heart "trembled with fear" 1 Samuel 28:5. He cries out to God, but there is nothing. The heavens are like brass.

In his desperation, Saul does the unthinkable. He had previously banished all mediums and necromancers from the land, enforcing the Torah’s strict prohibition against consulting the dead. But now, feeling utterly abandoned, he tells his servants, "Find me a woman who consults ghosts" 1 Samuel 28:7.

Let’s look at the language of the text. Saul disguises himself, puts on different clothes, and goes to the woman by night.

Why the disguise? Why the night? It is not just to hide from his subjects; it is to hide from himself. Saul is stripping off his royal garments—the very garments of leadership that have become a heavy, suffocating shroud—and stepping into the identity of a desperate, nameless beggar.

When he finds the medium of En-dor, she is terrified. She says, "You know what Saul has done, how he has banned [the use of] ghosts... why are you laying a trap for me?" 1 Samuel 28:9.

And here comes one of the most tragic verses in the entire Tanakh. Saul swears to her:

"As God lives, you won’t get into trouble over this." — 1 Samuel 28:10

The Hebrew phrase is Chai Hashem im yikrech avon badavar hazeh.

Let’s look closely at the commentary of Metzudat David (Rabbi David Altschuler) on this verse. He translates Chai Hashem simply: "I am swearing an oath." Saul is swearing by the name of the living God (Chai Hashem) that no punishment will come to this woman for performing an act that God has explicitly forbidden!

Furthermore, Metzudat Zion notes that the word yikrech comes from the language of mikreh—happenstance or accidental occurrence—and avon means punishment (citing Lamentations 5:7: "we have borne their punishments"). Saul is promising her that by some stroke of random luck or cosmic exemption, the consequences of this spiritual violation will not touch her.

Think about the psychological fracture here. Saul is using the name of the God who is refusing to speak to him to validate a practice that cuts him off from God entirely. He is trying to force a spiritual connection through a broken, outlawed channel.

When the woman asks, "Whom shall I bring up for you?" Saul answers without hesitation: "Bring up Samuel for me" 1 Samuel 28:11.

Why Samuel? Because Samuel was the one who anointed him. Samuel was the one who guided him. Samuel was the authority figure who represented safety, clarity, and divine favor. Saul is not just trying to conjure a dead prophet; he is trying to conjure the ghost of his own past. He is trying to summon the time in his life when he was worthy, when he was chosen, when the future was bright and clear.

When Samuel finally appears, wrapped in his familiar robe, he does not offer comfort. He offers a cold, hard mirror. He says: "Why do you ask me, seeing that God has turned away from you and has become your adversary? ... Tomorrow you and your sons will be with me" 1 Samuel 28:16-19.

The prophecy is absolute. Saul’s reign is over. His life is over. The battle is lost before it has even begun.

Hearing this, Saul collapses. He falls "prone on the ground, terrified by Samuel’s words" 1 Samuel 28:20. The text adds a poignant detail: "there was no strength in him, for he had not eaten anything all day and all night."

The Unexpected Sanctuary of the Outlawed

And now, the story takes an extraordinary, deeply human turn. The medium—the woman whom Saul had outlawed, the woman whose life he had put at risk—looks at this shattered king lying on the dirt floor of her tent. She does not mock him. She does not take revenge. She feels a profound, maternal pity for him.

She says to him: "Your handmaid listened to you; I took my life in my hands... So now you listen to me: Let me set before you a bit of food. Eat, and then you will have the strength to go on your way" 1 Samuel 28:21-22.

Saul refuses. He wants to lie there and die in the dark. He says, "I will not eat."

But the woman and his servants persist. They urge him, they lift him up from the dirt, and they place him on her bed.

And then, she prepares a feast. The text describes it with beautiful, domestic specificity:

"The woman had a stall-fed calf in the house; she hastily slaughtered it, and took flour and kneaded it, and baked some unleavened cakes. She set this before Saul and his courtiers, and they ate. Then they rose and left the same night." — 1 Samuel 28:24-25

In the depths of the forbidden dark, in the home of a social outcast, the king of Israel finds a momentary sanctuary. He finds a woman who kneads dough, bakes bread, and feeds him so that he has the physical strength to face his doom.

Bringing It Home: The Grace of the "Unleavened Cake"

This is a story that speaks directly to the "dark nights of the soul" that every family and every home experiences.

There are seasons in our lives when our spiritual GPS goes completely offline. We pray, we seek guidance, we look for signs, and there is only silence. The old ways we used to connect—the "dreams, Urim, and prophets" of our youth—no longer work. The warmth of the "camp fire" has faded, and we find ourselves in the cold, disorienting woods of adulthood, facing crises of health, finance, relationship, or identity.

In those moments of desperation, we are often tempted to do what Saul did: to run to "ghosts."

We try to conjure the ghosts of who we used to be. We look at our partners and say, "Why can't we be the way we were ten years ago?" We look at our children and try to force them into boxes that no longer fit. We fall back on old, toxic habits—outlawed behaviors, patterns of manipulation, or addictions—that we swore we had banished from our lives, just to get a quick fix of certainty or comfort. We swear by God's name (Chai Hashem) that "this time won't hurt," that we can handle the compromise.

But the text shows us a different path through the dark.

The turning point of the story is not the ghost of Samuel; it is the bread of the medium.

When Saul is flat on his face, paralyzed by terror and grief, the spiritual answers do not change. The decree of his downfall stands. But what does change is his physical state. He is nourished. He is met with simple, unconditional human kindness by someone he had previously demonized.

In our homes, when the big answers are not coming, when we cannot solve the existential crises of our lives, the holy work is often to "bake the unleavened cakes."

It is the work of simple, physical care. It is making a hot meal for a partner who is drowning in stress. It is sitting on the edge of the bed with a teenager who is lost in their own darkness, not offering platitudes or trying to solve their problems, but simply offering a plate of food and saying, "Eat, so you have the strength to go on your way."

Sometimes, the most spiritual thing we can do is to be deeply, radically present to our physical needs and the needs of those we love. We don't need a prophet to rise from the dead to tell us how to survive the night. We just need to feed each other, rise up, and face the dawn together.

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Micro-Ritual

To bring this powerful "campfire Torah" into your home, we are going to introduce a simple, beautiful ritual for Friday night (Shabbat dinner) or Havdalah. We call it "The En-dor Candle: Embracing the Unanswered Questions."

This is a ritual designed for those moments when your family or your household is navigating a period of transition, uncertainty, or silence. It is a way to honor the darkness without being consumed by it.

       [ THE EN-DOR CANDLE RITUAL ]
       
              ( )  <-- The Unlit Pillar Candle
             |   |     (Represents the Silent Spaces)
             |___|
               |
               v
       [ Place in the Center of the Table ]
               |
               v
       [ Pass the Match / Light Source ]
               |
               v
       [ Share One Unanswered Question ]
               |
               v
  "We light this candle not because we have the answers,
   but because we have the courage to sit in the dark."

The Setup

• Find a single, sturdy, unlit pillar candle (separate from your standard Shabbat or Havdalah candles). Place it in the center of your table.
• Keep the room's lights dimmed lower than usual to evoke that "campfire" feel.

The Action

1. The Silent Minute: Before you sing Shalom Aleichem or begin the Havdalah blessings, sit in complete silence around the table for exactly one minute. Let the silence settle. Do not try to fill it.
2. The Question Round: Pass a single unlit match or a small tea light around the table. Each person who wishes to can share one "unanswered question" or "uncertainty" they are currently carrying in their lives (e.g., “I don’t know if I’m making the right career move,” or “I’m feeling distant from my friends,” or “I’m worried about the future.”).
3. The Lighting: The last person to speak uses the flame to light the central "En-dor Candle."
4. The Blessing of Presence: Together, recite this simple, modern blessing of presence (you can sing it to any simple, repetitive camp melody):

"We light this candle not because we have the answers, but because we have the courage to sit in the dark together. May our home be a sanctuary of grace, where we are fed and held, even when the path ahead is hidden from our eyes."

5. The Feast: Serve the meal. Make sure there is warm, fresh bread on the table—a physical reminder of the medium’s unleavened cakes that gave Saul the strength to rise.

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Chevruta Mini

Here are two deep, campfire-style questions to discuss with a partner, a friend, or around your table:

1. The Bodyguard Dilemma: David was appointed the "bodyguard of the head" (shomer l'roshi) for a king who was not his true leader. In your own life, what external demands are currently trying to claim your "head" (your focus, your energy, your loyalty)? How do you practice "holy ambiguity" to protect your inner sanctuary?
2. The Hunger of Saul: Saul collapsed because he had not eaten "all day and all night." He was spiritually starving, so he forgot to feed his body. Have you ever experienced a time when spiritual or emotional distress caused you to neglect your basic physical needs? How did you—or how can you—allow the "mediums" in your life (the unexpected people, the simple acts of care) to feed you and help you stand back up?

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Takeaway

When the campfire of our youth fades, and we enter the complex, shadowy woods of adult life, we will inevitably face moments of silence. We will stand on the hills of Gilboa, looking at the forces arrayed against us, and feel our hearts tremble with fear.

But the Torah of En-dor reminds us that we do not have to run to the ghosts of our past to find our way forward. We do not need to force answers from a silent sky.

Instead, we can find our strength in the simple, radical acts of human connection: in the setting of boundaries, the sharing of our uncertainties, and the baking of bread for those who are falling.

The next time you feel the darkness closing in, don't look up for a miracle. Look across the table. Pass the bread, hold the silence, and remember that even in the deepest night, we are never truly alone.

“Yai-lai-lai, lai-lai-lai-lai, yai-lai-lai…”

Go bring this Torah home.