The woman came to Saul, and when she saw that he was terrified, she said to him, ‘Your servant has listened to you; I have taken my life in my hand, and have listened to what you have said to me. Now therefore, you also listen to your servant; let me set a morsel of bread before you. Eat, that you may have strength when you go on your way.’
1 Samuel 28:21&22 (NRSV)
I have a confession to make.
I’ve always loved a good ghost story. When I was younger, I liked reading all kinds of ghost stories, from the classics to the drug store variety. I enjoyed the movie versions too. I knew they were made-up, but I savored the manufactured thrill that only tales of unexpected apparitions and unwelcome phantoms could provide. To me, they were like roller coasters: lots of excitement with no real danger.
Now that I’m older, I’m still drawn to these stories, but I’ve noticed something strange. Watching a movie or show about a character haunted by some spectral being requires far less suspension of disbelief than it once did for me. But it’s not the literal facet of the ghost story I find more believable now. Instead, it’s the metaphorical one. More often than not, literary and cinematic ghosts are simply metaphors for the things we cannot or do not wish to let go of. They are memories of people who are gone. They are manifestations of guilt over past sins or mistakes. They represent lingering grief and unrealized dreams. The longer we live, the more these intangible perceptions seem to appear. They take shape in our minds and hearts, materializing in our unguarded moments.
In some ways, the past several months have felt a bit like living in a ghost story. The pandemic has dramatically altered our habits. We live each day in a new reality, but thoughts of how things used to be and how we wish they still were shadow our movements. Jobs have been lost or changed; family gatherings, worship services, and celebrations have been canceled. Memories of life just one year ago reflect back to us, and the contrast is unsettling.
It has also been a year for facing injustice. This injustice has been a harsh and consistent reality for many, but for others, it’s manifested as a startling, looming ugliness once thought to be dead and buried.
For all these reasons and more, this season has stirred up my own personal anxiety and depression—things I’d usually attempt to ignore by staying busy and not having too much time to myself. Now I’ve had no choice but to confront them once again.
Most good ghost stories eventually lead to a confrontation. At some point, the protagonist must stop running and meet the fearsome specter head-on. The past and present collide. Old hurts must be dealt with. Wrongs must be righted. And I can’t help but think that his has been a year for confronting our own ghosts as well. Many of us have had to own up to our mortality and our frailty unlike ever before. We’ve had to admit our limitations, realizing we can’t simply wish or work them away. And, as a society, we’ve had to acknowledge that we still have so much work to do in the way of justice and fairness.
Confrontation is certainly a feature of one apparitional story of sorts found in Hebrew Scripture. The first book of Samuel draws to a close just as the reign and life of Israel’s King Saul draw to a close. Beset by enemies and abandoned by Providence, Saul seeks out a medium—someone who can conjure spirits—despite the fact that he’s made a point to drive such people out of the land. His desperation has turned him down a bizarre path.
When the medium asks what spirit Saul would like her to conjure, he asks to speak to the revered but deceased prophet Samuel. Saul’s wish seems to be granted as, to her horror, the medium finds herself face-to-face with the spirit of an old man whom Saul determines is Samuel. This ethereal manifestation of Samuel offers Saul no more comfort than the earthly one did. He foretells Saul’s demise, the loss of his kingdom, and judgment for his disobedience. At long last, Saul has no choice but to confront his fate and the consequences for his past behavior.
It’s a dark and dismal moment for Saul, and he is so overcome by it that he collapses under the strain. Yet in that fateful moment, he also finds a sliver of comfort and warmth from a very unlikely place: the medium herself. Despite being at odds with the soon to be defeated king, by virtue of her very profession, she gives him food and drink to strengthen him for his fate. She embodies true hospitality culture and offers sustenance to the stranger in her house. It is the last material comfort Saul will ever know in his life.
In that moment, we see a glimpse of true compassion. Notwithstanding the fact that Saul is a doomed man, I like to see the actions of this medium as a reminder that one of the most resilient gifts God gives us is our humanity—that is—our ability to be humane toward one another. It is that very humanity that Christ himself embodied.
In his earthly time, Christ received compassion from others: from his mother, the women who gave financial support to his ministry, the woman who anointed his feet before his death, and those who attended to his body afterwards. And all through his ministry, he gave compassion. Even in his last few hours, Christ showed an act of service and kindness by humbly washing the feet of his disciples. These acts linger as beacons to light our way in the darkness. They are reminders that our ultimate call is to love.
If anything, these days should reinforce that call. All around us, neighbors are struggling, but like the secondary characters in a ghost story, we don’t always see the substance of those shadows cast over them. We don’t always know what they’ve lost. We don’t see what life being put on hold has cost them. We can sense the fatigue of caregivers and medical workers, but we are not plagued with their memories of hours spent laboring to help the sick during a crisis that has strained resources to their breaking point. And we don’t always see the depth of hurt and injustice behind the frustration of those who suffer from it and oppose it. We cannot see all these things, but we can still reach out. We can be stubbornly compassionate. Despite forces urging us to do otherwise, we can still cling to our shared humanity. For it is in doing this that we meet Christ, the Light that dispels every shadow.
Prayer:
Loving God, in the face of Christ, you have revealed the face of Love, and our own potential to show and be Love to one another. In this turbulent season, when we feel separated: physically, emotionally, or ideologically, inspire our hearts to radical acts of compassion and empathy, that we may emulate the example of the Savior in whose name we pray. Amen.
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