1 Samuel 3:1-10
Our Old Testament story for today actually begins two chapters before our reading. It begins with the story of Elkanah, and his two wives: Peninnah and Hannah. Hannah was the favored wife, the beloved wife; but Peninnah was the fruitful wife. Hannah was not able to have children—a fact that her rival was quick to point out at every turn. Hannah wanted a child so desperately that she made a bargain with God to get him. Hannah promised that if God gave her a male child, she would devote that child to God.
At that time in Israelite history, all firstborn male children were set aside as holy and given to God. This was done in remembrance of God’s saving act for the children of Israel when the firstborn sons of all the Egyptians were killed. It was mostly a symbolic act. On the child’s 31st day of life, the father would recite a blessing and give a donation equal to 100 grams of silver to the priest, in essence, buying his son back from God.
Samuel, however, was never bought back. We are told that after he was weaned, his mother took him to the temple and left him there, giving him to God, and entrusting him to the care of Eli, the priest. We don’t know how long children were nursed at the time, so we don’t know exactly how old Samuel was. We do know that he was too young to understand why. He was too young to understand that he was her most precious gift, her miracle; and certainly too young to understand why she had to give up her most precious gift.
The Bible tells us that Hannah visited every year. I can only imagine their visits. The first year, he was still so young; he may not have recognized her at first. Maybe she looked kind of familiar, or maybe he recognized her voice as something he had heard at least once in a dream. I bet he was scared of this woman who hugged him so tight, who loved him so much. I can just picture Eli putting his hand on Samuel’s shoulder and saying, “Samuel, this is your mother.”
The Bible tells us that each year she brought him a new robe to wear. But she couldn’t have known how much he had grown, so I’m guessing that she always made them too big. I can just see this little boy traipsing around the temple in a robe two inches too long with sleeves down to his fingertips.
Hannah may have been his mother, but the temple was his home. It was also his nursery, his school, his playground. Eli was good to him. He became like a father to Samuel, teaching him during the day and tucking him in at night. Eli had trouble with his own sons—they were committing horrible acts as the priests of Shiloh—so maybe Eli thought he had been given another chance with Samuel.
As Samuel grew older, so did Eli. His health began to fail him. He lost his eyesight. So Samuel became his eyes. His hearing grew faint. So Samuel became his ears. Until the night when their roles were reversed.
We are told that Samuel was lying in the temple, near the ark of the covenant. Remember, the ark of the covenant was the symbol of God’s presence with the people. It held the tablets containing the commandments, and God was said to reside there. The ark of the covenant was the primary sacred symbol for the people. Can you imagine, a young boy lying near such a holy object? I expect that he liked to pretend as all children do. I imagine him lying there at night, pretending that he was guarding the ark from marauding enemies, hiding a slingshot under his cot just in case.
But on that particular night, he was drifting off to sleep when he heard his name. “Samuel!” He woke up with a start. Had he dreamed it, or was it real? He wasn’t sure, but in case Eli needed him, he went running to Eli’s side. “Here I am, Eli. You called me?” Eli must have been drifting off to sleep as well, so he mumbled, “I didn’t call you. Go back to bed.”
Samuel must have been dreaming. You know how things are when you first drift off to sleep—you can hear all kinds of things and think they are real. But in a few minutes he heard it again. Again he ran to Eli’s side, and again he was told that Eli didn’t call him.
When it happened for the third time, Samuel must have been very confused. But he ran again to the side of this man he loved like a father. “Here I am, Eli. You called me.”
Fortunately, Eli wasn’t confused. He knew what was happening. He told Samuel what to do if he heard the voice again: say “Speak, Lord, for your servant hears.”
If Samuel wasn’t scared before, he would have been by then! And the voice came again, for the fourth time. But now that Samuel listened more carefully, it didn’t sound like Eli at all. The voice was beyond description. It was strong and soft, with a timbre that resonated within him. It was music, a whole choir in one voice. It was like nothing Samuel had ever heard . . . and yet it felt familiar, like something he’d heard at least once in a dream, as familiar as the beat of his own heart. “Here I am,” he said. “Speak, Lord, for your servant hears.”
Those words marked the beginning of a long journey—sometimes painful, sometimes glorious. He anointed Israel’s first king—and then another . . . a young boy with a slingshot. And none of this would have happened without Eli as his second father. For Samuel was frightened of this God who trusted him so much, and he needed Eli to put a hand on his shoulder and say, “Samuel, this is your God.”
We all need an Eli from time to time. The voice of God comes in many ways and many forms, and sometimes we need someone else to help us recognize it. Sometimes we need someone to put a hand on our shoulder and say, “This is your God.”
We often don’t recognize the voice of God amid the cacophony of voices which demand our attention. We’re bombarded by voices—entertainers and reporters and politicians, gurus and teachers and preachers—we all add to the din and clamor. Plus, it can be hard to hear the still small voice of God when we are never still! When we never stop moving, we hope maybe God can’t keep up. If we never stop talking, we don’t have to worry about listening, about hearing what God might want to say.
Sometimes we get confused because so many voices claim to be the voice of God. The god of power, which speaks of prominence, potency, and control. The god of achievement, which speaks of mastery, triumph, and success. The god of self-sufficiency, which speaks of independence and separation and “I can do it myself!” The god of shame, which speaks of “not good enough” and blame and self-hatred. These are not the true voice of our God.
But sometimes the true voice of God comes and we don’t recognize it because it doesn’t sound like what we expected. It is a voice, not in English or even in Hebrew or Greek, but Portuguese, Swahili, or Arabic. It is a voice not from above but from below, from the marginalized and disenfranchised. It is the voice not of the status quo, but of change and turmoil and transformation. It is the voice rarely of judgment, and always of forgiveness.
This is the voice that comes to us, in the night when we’re all alone; when we are home or wondering where in the world Home is; when we’re lying with a sling shot under our pillow, to chase away our imagined enemies. This is the voice of God: the voice of forgiveness and grace and mercy and love.
I wish I could tell you I always recognize it. Heck, I wish I could tell you I always try! But sometimes I’d rather take the credit than consider the possibility that maybe that grand idea was God’s rather than mine. Sometimes I have a really hard time taking my own advice, especially when I preach forgiveness but still hold my own feet to the fire for every mistake. Sometimes I say things like “The voice of God is not the voice of the status quo,” but I mean your status quo, not mine!
People sometimes believe that ministers are closer to God than “regular people.” I have always said that ministers are close to God in the same way that problem students are close to the teacher: You put them up front where you can keep an eye on them.
When I was in the publishing world, some editor friends and I used to talk about writers whose only problem was they believed their own press. In other words, they believed the reviews that said their prose was exquisite or that their first novel was the best fiction debut of the decade. Well, ministers have the same fatal flaw. We get ourselves in trouble when we begin to believe that we have it all together, when we start thinking that we have greater wisdom than our parishioners, or that we are the spiritual giants that some of them want to believe we are.
So when I stand here and tell you what the voice of God sounds like, please don’t believe that I actually am an expert on the topic. Sometimes I recognize God’s voice and sometimes it’s years later when I suddenly realize, “Oh, wow, that must’ve been God!”
I have heard God speak—in words, in images, through other people’s mouths—but I don’t walk around with a direct line to God. Sometimes God seems silent to me, too. And sometimes I depend too much on the slingshot.
I am not an expert, but this I do know. I have a lot better chance of hearing God speak if I will shut up once in a while.