Here I Am!
Illustration
Stories
Then the Lord called, “Samuel! Samuel!” and he said, “Here I am!” (v. 4)
Back in those days dark was dark.
Really dark.
In a moonless sky, the stars would shine brighter than most of us have ever seen, all the more awe-inspiring their majesty, paradoxically emphasizing all the more the darkness that reigned.
Now call to mind in that tent where Eli and Samuel made their beds, a single lamp of God shone, casting eerily flickering shadows. Who would not have jumped nearly out of their own skin when a voice called out again and again, “Samuel! Samuel!”
That had to be startling to a kid, leading the child Samuel to seek out the priest Eli, hoping against hope it was him who called.
Only it wasn’t.
Who goes there? No matter how authoritatively one attempts to speak those words, they have to be accompanied with just a twinge of fear. Every sentry at their post, hearing the snap of a twig, the intake of someone else’s breath, or catching a glimpse of a wisp of fog — one hopes it was just fog — out of the corner of one’s eye had to feel a deep and abiding fear, not only of one’s human enemies (for why else would you post a guard if there wasn’t someone to fear?) but of those things that one can only hope are not true, but which seems only too possible in the thick darkness.
Telling a ghost story at night in a camp setting can usually elicit screams of fright when the listeners are startled by a sudden loud noise or other special effect — but what about in broad daylight, in bright sunshine? Would the same story sound anywhere close to that scary?
When Shakespeare’s classic play “Hamlet” was first performed it was in an open-air theater called the Globe, and performances were always in daylight. In the first scene, it becomes apparent that “something’s rotten in the state of Denmark….” Yes, that line and many others comes from the play. Guards are supposedly shrouded in darkness, in bitter the bitter cold of that Nordic country, even though it might well be a sweltering summer’s day when the play was performed. A guard, Francisco, stands lonely vigil when he is startled by the arrival of Barnardo, who has come to take his place. And Francisco is so startled and frightened that he forgets to challenge the figure stepping out of the darkness and is instead himself challenged.
“Who’s there?”
“Nay,” says Francisco, “answer me. Stand and unfold ourself.”
“Long live the king,” Barnardo replies. That seems to provide some relief, and Francisco admits, “For this relief much thanks, tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.”
How to make the audience, some of whom are standing only a few feet away from the actors, believe it is a freezing night while they swelter, drinking a beer or eating an orange sold to them by one of the women selling refreshments during the show, in broad daylight?
Well, that’s what good acting is all about.
Two others, a guard named Marcellus, and a scholar named Horatio, who will turn out to be Hamlet’s best friend, arrive, and Francisco departs. The two remaining guards tell Horatio that the last few nights as the bell rang for one o’clock in the morning, the ghost of the late king, Hamlet’s father, has appeared to them, but said not a word. Horatio refused to believe a word of it. He’s sure they’re mistaken.
Then, with the help of special effects, the ghost of the king — or is it a demon? — rises from the trap door. The spirit rose suddenly, without warning, frightening members of the audience who weren’t expecting it, possibly causing some to scream — and perhaps to drop their beer! — as the ghost entered from below, from what was referred to in the language of the theater of the day, as the hell.
It is said that Shakespeare, an actor himself, played the ghost of Hamlet’s father. A few days later, when Hamlet himself comes to speak to his father’s ghost, he will be told that his uncle, the ghost’s brother, who is now king, murdered him and made it look like he was bitten by a snake. The ghost demands revenge, and Hamlet will struggle to determine if this is truly a spirit who came from purgatory to demand justice, or a demon who is tempting him to hell. It is all very spooky, very horrifying, and very much reliant upon the actors’ skills to make it seem so, since it all occurs in broad daylight.
Who goes there, out in the darkness that stretches to the edge of eternity? Wow! This is really spooky!
Getting back to the biblical account of “Who Goes There?” I think many of us preachers and Sunday School teachers emphasize what seems intended as comic repetition — three times Samuel hears his name called by a disembodied voice, three times he goes to Eli, and it is not until the third time that Eli figures out it is the Lord. There’s something, however, eerie, even spooky about it all, because Samuel seems to hope against hope that it’s Eli, because if it’s not, then who could it possibly be, and Eli, getting over his annoyance, realizes that something profoundly divine is happening — at least he hopes so. And if it is truly the Lord speaking, it may or may not be good news. It could easily be bad news — and it is.
We’re telling this in broad daylight, but let’s all put ourselves mentally in a different setting, in darkness, in quiet, that’s punctuated only by a voice — with very bad news for Eli…
Back in those days dark was dark.
Really dark.
In a moonless sky, the stars would shine brighter than most of us have ever seen, all the more awe-inspiring their majesty, paradoxically emphasizing all the more the darkness that reigned.
Now call to mind in that tent where Eli and Samuel made their beds, a single lamp of God shone, casting eerily flickering shadows. Who would not have jumped nearly out of their own skin when a voice called out again and again, “Samuel! Samuel!”
That had to be startling to a kid, leading the child Samuel to seek out the priest Eli, hoping against hope it was him who called.
Only it wasn’t.
Who goes there? No matter how authoritatively one attempts to speak those words, they have to be accompanied with just a twinge of fear. Every sentry at their post, hearing the snap of a twig, the intake of someone else’s breath, or catching a glimpse of a wisp of fog — one hopes it was just fog — out of the corner of one’s eye had to feel a deep and abiding fear, not only of one’s human enemies (for why else would you post a guard if there wasn’t someone to fear?) but of those things that one can only hope are not true, but which seems only too possible in the thick darkness.
Telling a ghost story at night in a camp setting can usually elicit screams of fright when the listeners are startled by a sudden loud noise or other special effect — but what about in broad daylight, in bright sunshine? Would the same story sound anywhere close to that scary?
When Shakespeare’s classic play “Hamlet” was first performed it was in an open-air theater called the Globe, and performances were always in daylight. In the first scene, it becomes apparent that “something’s rotten in the state of Denmark….” Yes, that line and many others comes from the play. Guards are supposedly shrouded in darkness, in bitter the bitter cold of that Nordic country, even though it might well be a sweltering summer’s day when the play was performed. A guard, Francisco, stands lonely vigil when he is startled by the arrival of Barnardo, who has come to take his place. And Francisco is so startled and frightened that he forgets to challenge the figure stepping out of the darkness and is instead himself challenged.
“Who’s there?”
“Nay,” says Francisco, “answer me. Stand and unfold ourself.”
“Long live the king,” Barnardo replies. That seems to provide some relief, and Francisco admits, “For this relief much thanks, tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.”
How to make the audience, some of whom are standing only a few feet away from the actors, believe it is a freezing night while they swelter, drinking a beer or eating an orange sold to them by one of the women selling refreshments during the show, in broad daylight?
Well, that’s what good acting is all about.
Two others, a guard named Marcellus, and a scholar named Horatio, who will turn out to be Hamlet’s best friend, arrive, and Francisco departs. The two remaining guards tell Horatio that the last few nights as the bell rang for one o’clock in the morning, the ghost of the late king, Hamlet’s father, has appeared to them, but said not a word. Horatio refused to believe a word of it. He’s sure they’re mistaken.
Then, with the help of special effects, the ghost of the king — or is it a demon? — rises from the trap door. The spirit rose suddenly, without warning, frightening members of the audience who weren’t expecting it, possibly causing some to scream — and perhaps to drop their beer! — as the ghost entered from below, from what was referred to in the language of the theater of the day, as the hell.
It is said that Shakespeare, an actor himself, played the ghost of Hamlet’s father. A few days later, when Hamlet himself comes to speak to his father’s ghost, he will be told that his uncle, the ghost’s brother, who is now king, murdered him and made it look like he was bitten by a snake. The ghost demands revenge, and Hamlet will struggle to determine if this is truly a spirit who came from purgatory to demand justice, or a demon who is tempting him to hell. It is all very spooky, very horrifying, and very much reliant upon the actors’ skills to make it seem so, since it all occurs in broad daylight.
Who goes there, out in the darkness that stretches to the edge of eternity? Wow! This is really spooky!
Getting back to the biblical account of “Who Goes There?” I think many of us preachers and Sunday School teachers emphasize what seems intended as comic repetition — three times Samuel hears his name called by a disembodied voice, three times he goes to Eli, and it is not until the third time that Eli figures out it is the Lord. There’s something, however, eerie, even spooky about it all, because Samuel seems to hope against hope that it’s Eli, because if it’s not, then who could it possibly be, and Eli, getting over his annoyance, realizes that something profoundly divine is happening — at least he hopes so. And if it is truly the Lord speaking, it may or may not be good news. It could easily be bad news — and it is.
We’re telling this in broad daylight, but let’s all put ourselves mentally in a different setting, in darkness, in quiet, that’s punctuated only by a voice — with very bad news for Eli…
