I Samuel 31

Hook

If you close your eyes and let your mind drift back to the final night of the camp season, what do you smell? It’s almost certainly a mix of damp pine needles, the faint, sweet musk of a dying campfire, and the unmistakable scent of a well-worn sweatshirt that hasn't seen a washing machine in two weeks.

Picture the scene: the entire camp is gathered in a massive circle. The sky above is a deep, velvety indigo, dotted with stars that seem to burn brighter just for you. You’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder with people who were strangers two months ago but are now the keepers of your deepest secrets. Someone starts to gently strum an acoustic guitar. It’s that familiar, slow, wordless niggun—a melody that starts low in the chest, rising up like warmth from the embers.

Lai-la-lai, lai-la-lai, lai-la-lai-lai-lai...

You sing it together, your voices blending into a single, resonant heartbeat. In that moment, you feel completely safe. You feel seen. You feel like you could conquer any mountain because the "camp bubble" is impenetrable.

But then, a quiet ache settles into your stomach. You look at the duffel bags packed and lined up by the bunks. You realize that tomorrow morning, the buses will roll in. The bubble is going to burst. You’re going to be sent back to the "real world"—a world of school pressures, family dynamics, social media noise, and the messy, unpredictable challenges of growing up. How do you carry the warmth of that campfire when the environment around you turns freezing cold? How do you keep the song alive when the music stops?

The final chapter of the Book of First Samuel, which we are diving into today, is the ultimate "end of the season" moment in the biblical narrative. The safe, structured world that Israel knew under its first king is collapsing. The bubble has burst. We find ourselves standing on the windy, blood-soaked slopes of Mount Gilboa, watching a tragedy unfold. But as we will discover, even in the deepest darkness of this ending, there are sparks of radical loyalty, courage, and light that can teach us exactly how to bring the "campfire" home to our own families, our own living rooms, and our own modern lives.

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Context

To understand how we arrived on this stormy mountain ridge, we need to zoom out and look at the landscape of the narrative. Here are three key coordinates to help you find your footing:

• The Parallel Realities: Up until this point, the narrative has been toggling back and forth between two main characters: David and Saul. While David has been out in the southern wilderness, fighting off bandits, rescuing his family, and experiencing miraculous victories, King Saul has been spiraling into paranoia, isolation, and despair. This chapter brings Saul's tragic arc to its ultimate, heartbreaking conclusion.
• The Wild Mountain Storm (Our Outdoors Metaphor): Imagine you’re on a multi-day backpacking trip high in the alpine country. You’ve checked the weather, packed your gear, and felt totally in control. But suddenly, a freak high-altitude thunderstorm rolls over the ridge. The wind is howling at sixty miles an hour, the temperature drops thirty degrees in minutes, and the trail ahead is washed out. All your preparation is stripped away, and you are left exposed to the raw elements. That is Mount Gilboa for Saul and his army. The political and spiritual shields they relied on have vanished; they are caught in the open, facing the relentless onslaught of the Philistines.
• The Generational Handoff: This chapter is not just an ending; it is a violent, painful transition. The first experiment of Jewish monarchy under Saul is failing. The crown is slipping away, but the new era under King David has not yet fully begun. We are in the "interstitial space"—the dark night between the closing of one camp session and the opening of the next. It’s messy, it’s frightening, and it asks us: How do we behave when the old structures fall apart before the new ones are ready to hold us?

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Text Snapshot

Here is the raw, cinematic climax of the book of First Samuel, from the slopes of Mount Gilboa to the quiet, heroic burial in the valley below:

I Samuel 31:1–4 The Philistines attacked Israel, and the men of Israel fled before the Philistines and [many] fell on Mount Gilboa. The Philistines pursued Saul and his sons, and the Philistines struck down Jonathan, Abinadab, and Malchi-shua, sons of Saul. The battle raged around Saul, and some of the archers hit him, and he was severely wounded by the archers. Saul said to his arms-bearer, “Draw your sword and run me through, so that the uncircumcised may not run me through and make sport of me.” But his arms-bearer, in his great awe, refused; whereupon Saul grasped the sword and fell upon it.

I Samuel 31:11–13 When the inhabitants of Jabesh-gilead heard about it—what the Philistines had done to Saul—the stalwarts among them set out and marched all night; they removed the bodies of Saul and his sons from the wall of Beth-shan and came to Jabesh and burned them there. Then they took the bones and buried them under the tamarisk tree in Jabesh, and they fasted for seven days.

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Close Reading

Now, let’s pull up our camp chairs, throw another log on the fire, and lean in close to this text. At first glance, this chapter looks like a ancient war report—grim, bloody, and distant. But when we read it with "camp eyes"—looking for the human soul beneath the ink—two massive, life-changing insights emerge for our homes, our families, and our personal journeys.

Insight 1: The Anatomy of a Retreat—Why We Run and How to Stand Our Ground

Let’s look at the very opening of the battle. The text says, "The Philistines attacked Israel, and the men of Israel fled before the Philistines and [many] fell on Mount Gilboa" I Samuel 31:1.

The great 19th-century commentator, the Malbim, makes a fascinating and piercing observation on this verse. He writes:

וכלים שב לענין של מעלה, וספר שישראל נשתה גבורתם שלא לחמו כלל רק תיכף נסו ועל ידי זה ויפלו חללים כי תחלת מפלה ניסה

"And the narrative returns to the previous matter, and relates that Israel’s strength was drained, such that they did not fight at all but immediately fled, and because of this they fell as corpses—for the beginning of defeat is flight."

The Malbim is pointing out a profound psychological truth here. The Israelites didn't lose the battle because they were outmatched in hand-to-hand combat; they lost because they fled immediately. They didn't even try to stand their ground. The moment the pressure mounted, their inner strength evaporated, and they ran. And the Malbim’s kicker is a rule of human nature: the beginning of defeat is flight. The moment we choose to run away from our challenges rather than face them, we have already lost the battle.

To understand how this happens, we can look at the commentary of Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz on I Samuel 31:1. He notes:

"Perhaps the battle was initially waged in a single spot, but the fighting then spread to a large area near Gilboa, and the bodies of the slain lay strewn there."

This is the nature of a panic-driven retreat. It starts in one tiny spot—one localized moment of fear—and then it spreads like a wildfire, scattering everyone across the mountain, making them easy targets.

Think about how this plays out in our modern, everyday lives. We aren't fighting Philistine archers on rocky cliffs, but we experience "attacks" all the time.

• It’s the sudden, overwhelming wave of anxiety when we look at our bank accounts or our work inbox.
• It’s the rising tension in the kitchen when a spouse drops a critical comment or a teenager slams a door.
• It’s the deep, quiet fear of failure that whispers, “You aren’t cut out for this. You’re going to get exposed.”

What is our default response in these moments? More often than not, it is "flight."

In our families, flight doesn't always look like physically running out the front door (though sometimes we want to!). Flight looks like checking out. It looks like pulling out your phone and scrolling through Instagram while your partner is trying to talk to you about something important. It looks like retreating into silent-treatment stonewalling because a hard conversation feels too risky. It looks like avoiding that doctor's appointment, or refusing to apologize to your child because admitting you were wrong feels like exposing your flank to the enemy.

But as the Malbim teaches us, the beginning of defeat is flight. When we run from discomfort, we don't actually escape it; we just scatter our strength across the mountain. The anxiety spreads. The distance between us and the people we love grows wider. The small, localized conflict in the kitchen turns into a cold war that blankets the entire household.

How do we stop the flight? How do we find our footing on the slopes of our personal Gilboas?

At camp, we learn the power of the "bunk meeting." When the cabin dynamic gets toxic, when kids are fighting and things are falling apart, you don’t run away. You don’t get to pack your bags and sleep in the woods. The counselor calls a "circle up." Everyone sits on the floor, looks each other in the eye, and stays in the room until the hard truth is spoken and the air is cleared. You learn to tolerate the discomfort of standing your ground in a safe space.

In our homes, we need to build a "non-flight culture." This means creating an unspoken agreement with our partners and children: We do not run when it gets hard.

It means having the courage to say, in the middle of a rising argument: "I am feeling incredibly overwhelmed right now, and my brain is telling me to walk away and shut down. But I am staying right here. Let’s take a deep breath, and let’s figure this out together."

It means standing our ground against our own panic, recognizing that the "Philistines" of our minds are never as powerful as they seem when we actually turn to face them.

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Insight 2: The Fire Under the Tamarisk—The Radical Act of Showing Up After the Worst Has Happened

Now, let’s look at the second half of the chapter, which contains one of the most stunning, quiet acts of heroism in the entire Hebrew Bible.

Saul is dead. His sons, including the beloved Jonathan, are dead. The Philistines find their bodies, decapitate the king, and impale their corpses on the high stone walls of the fortress city of Beth-shan. It is the ultimate humiliation. The Malbim on I Samuel 31:10 explains the psychological warfare the Philistines were playing:

ורצו להזכיר על שנכרת ראש דגון בסבת ארון אלהי ישראל והנה עתה ראש מלכם הנכרת נמצא בבית דגון

"And they wanted to make mention of how the head of [their god] Dagon was cut off because of the Ark of the God of Israel I Samuel 5:4, and behold, now the head of Israel's king is cut off and placed in the house of Dagon."

This was a public, mocking display designed to show that Israel’s God, Israel’s country, and Israel’s future were utterly defeated and hopeless. The bodies of the leadership are left hanging like trophies in the sun.

Enter the people of Jabesh-gilead.

The text tells us: "When the inhabitants of Jabesh-gilead heard about it... the stalwarts among them set out and marched all night; they removed the bodies of Saul and his sons from the wall of Beth-shan..." I Samuel 31:11–12.

To appreciate this, we have to look at the Hebrew word used for the "stalwarts"—Anshei Chayil. These were men of valor, but their valor wasn't shown in a winning battle. The war was already lost! Saul was dead. There was no political gain to be had, no military victory to achieve, and no reward waiting for them. In fact, marching to Beth-shan—a Philistine stronghold—was an incredibly dangerous, covert mission. They risked their lives just to retrieve dead bodies.

Why did they do it?

To answer this, we have to flip back to the very beginning of Saul's story, in I Samuel 11. Decades earlier, when Saul was a newly anointed, insecure young king, the cruel Ammonite king Nahash besieged Jabesh-gilead and threatened to gouge out the right eye of every inhabitant. The people cried out for help. Saul, filled with divine fire, gathered the nation, marched to their defense, and saved them.

Now, decades later, Saul has fallen. He has made terrible mistakes. He has chased David, slaughtered priests, and lost his mind and his kingdom. But the people of Jabesh-gilead did not forget. They remembered the young man who had saved them when no one else would. They practiced Hakarat HaTov—the recognition of the good—across decades, across tragedy, and across death.

Let's look at how they honor him. They take the bodies down, bring them to Jabesh, and as the text says, "they took the bones and buried them under the tamarisk tree (Eshel) in Jabesh, and they fasted for seven days" I Samuel 31:13.

The Eshel—the tamarisk tree—is a highly loaded symbol in Jewish tradition. Who else planted an Eshel? Abraham did, in Beersheba Genesis 21:33. Our sages teach that Abraham’s Eshel was a place of radical hospitality, a tent open on all four sides where any traveler, no matter how lost or weary, could find food, water, and shade.

By burying Saul under the Eshel, the people of Jabesh-gilead were performing the ultimate act of Chesed shel Emet—true, selfless kindness. They were welcoming the broken, battered, and disgraced king home to a place of eternal hospitality, shelter, and dignity. They looked past his tragic end, past his failures, and honored the spark of holiness that was within him.

This is where the "campfire Torah" gets its grown-up legs.

We live in a culture that is obsessed with winners. We celebrate the "color war victory," the promotion, the straight-A report card, the beautiful vacation photos on Instagram. We love people when they are on top of the world. But what do we do when someone we love "falls on their sword"? What do we do when our child fails an exam, when our partner loses their job, or when a friend goes through a messy, public divorce?

Do we run away? Do we leave their dignity hanging on the walls of "Beth-shan" (or the modern equivalent: the gossip mill, social media, or silent judgment)?

Or are we Anshei Chayil—men and women of valor who are willing to "march all night" through the dark to reclaim their dignity?

In our families, this is the most sacred work we will ever do. It’s the work of being the "day after" people.

• It’s the parent who, when their teenager gets caught doing something stupid and is filled with shame, doesn't pile on the anger, but sits on the edge of the bed, rubs their back, and says: "You made a really bad mistake, but you are not a bad person. We are going to clean this up, and I am not going to let you go."
• It’s the spouse who, when their partner is drowning in depression or career failure, doesn't resent them for not pulling their weight, but quietly "marches through the night" to carry the household load, offering them the shade of the Eshel—the shelter of unconditional love.

The people of Jabesh-gilead didn't try to fix Saul. They couldn't bring him back to life. They couldn't undo the tragedy of Gilboa. But they could give him a dignified resting place. Sometimes, the greatest gift we can give the people in our homes is not a solution to their problems, but the quiet, enduring presence of our loyalty. We say to them: “I see your brokenness. I see your pain. And I am here to hold it with you.”

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Micro-Ritual

How do we take these big, beautiful concepts—standing our ground and showing up in the dark—and weave them into the fabric of our actual lives? We do it through ritual.

At camp, transitions are always marked by physical actions: the lowering of the flag, the lighting of a candle, the passing of a torch. We need that same physical grounding at home.

Here is a simple, powerful micro-ritual you can introduce to your family’s Friday night (Shabbat) dinner or your Havdalah ceremony. We call it "The Tamarisk Tree Spark."

When to do it:

Right after lighting the Shabbat candles on Friday night, or just before smelling the spices (Besamim) during Havdalah on Saturday night.

What you need:

• A small, empty wooden bowl (representing the soil under the Eshel/tamarisk tree).
• A box of matches or a small, battery-operated tea light for each person.

The Ritual:

1. The Set-Up: Place the empty wooden bowl in the center of your table. Explain to your family or guests that this bowl represents the "Tamarisk Tree"—a place of safety, unconditional love, and shelter where we bring our broken pieces at the end of a long, hard week.
2. The Prompt: Ask everyone to take a moment of silence and think about one "broken piece," one struggle, or one moment this week where they felt like "running away" or felt defeated. It doesn't have to be a massive tragedy; it could be a tough test, a stressful meeting, or a moment of impatience.
3. The Sharing (Optional but encouraged): One by one, if people feel comfortable, they can share that moment. As they do, they drop a small, unlit matchstick (or a small stone) into the wooden bowl. By putting it in the bowl, they are symbolically "taking it down from the wall" and giving it a safe, honored place to rest. They are saying: “I don’t have to carry this alone anymore. I am bringing it into the shelter of our home.”
4. The Blessing of Honor: The person sitting to their right then offers them a simple, standard camp-style blessing of presence. They look them in the eye, place a hand on their shoulder, and say:

   "I see how hard you fought this week. I’m glad you’re home, and we’ve got your back."

5. The Song: Close the ritual by singing a simple, wordless niggun together. The melody acts as the glue, binding the broken pieces into a beautiful, shared story. (A perfect suggestion is the classic Chabad Niggun of Four Stanzas, or even a simple, slow rendition of Shalom Aleichem).

This ritual takes less than five minutes, but it completely shifts the energy of the home. It transforms the dining room table from a place of performance ("What did you achieve this week?") to a sanctuary of radical, unconditional belonging.

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Chevruta Mini

Grab a partner—your spouse, your teenager, a close friend, or even a fellow camp alum—and spend ten minutes talking through these two questions. Don't look for "right" answers; look for real ones.

1. Where is your Gilboa? Think about the area of your life where you are most tempted to "flee" (to check out, avoid, or shut down) when the pressure mounts. Is it in your parenting, your marriage, your finances, or your relationship with yourself? What would it look like to stand your ground in that area for just thirty seconds longer next time?
2. Who is your Jabesh-gilead? Who are the people in your life who have shown up for you when you were "hanging on the wall"—when you had failed, made a mess, or were at your lowest? How can you practice Hakarat HaTov (gratitude) toward them this week? Conversely, is there someone in your circle right now who is going through a "dark night" whom you need to march through the night to support?

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Takeaway

As the virtual embers of our study fire begin to cool, let’s pack up our gear and carry this truth with us.

The story of Mount Gilboa is a tragedy, yes. But it is also a map. It shows us that when the world gets cold, chaotic, and scary, we have a choice. We do not have to flee. We do not have to let our fears scatter us across the mountain.

We can choose to stand our ground, right there in our living rooms, holding onto each other with fierce, unyielding love. And when the people we love stumble, fall, or break, we can be the Anshei Chayil—the camp counselors of the real world—who march through the night to gather up the pieces, bring them home, and bury them in the soft soil of grace, under the shade of the tamarisk tree.

So, let's take a deep breath. Let's lift our voices one last time.

Lai-la-lai, lai-la-lai, lai-la-lai-lai-lai...

Keep the fire burning, chevra. Bring the Torah home. Shabbat Shalom!