The king’s tent shuddered under the weight of silence, and I dared not speak. I was only a servant, nameless and unnoticed. You won’t find my name in any scroll. I served in the palace during the reign of Shaul — the first king of Israel, whose reign started with promise but ended in failure.
It all began on a day that started with trumpets and ended in tears.
For weeks, we had waited for King Shaul to return from war. Hashem — the name we use to speak of God with reverence — had commanded him to wipe out Amalek, to destroy not just their army, but their king and all their possessions. It was harsh, but Hashem’s will was clear.
When the army finally returned, I stood just outside the camp, hearing the cheering and clapping. Victory, they said. But something didn’t sit right. I saw cattle, sheep, even gold and silver being carted in. And walking behind King Shaul... there was a man in chains. Someone murmured it was Agag, the king of Amalek.
A sick feeling twisted in my stomach.
Then, the prophet Shmuel — known as Samuel — arrived.
Shmuel’s face was a storm, his gaze colder than any warrior’s. He didn’t bow or smile, and his eyes carried the weight of too many tears. The crowd parted for him in silence, and I followed from a distance.
“Blessed are you to the Lord!” Shaul exclaimed, stepping forward, a grin on his face. “I have done what the Lord commanded.”
Shmuel didn’t answer. His eyes slid past Shaul, and his voice cut through the air like thunder. “Then what is this bleating of sheep in my ears? What is this lowing of oxen that I hear?”
The color drained from King Shaul’s face.
“They... the people spared the best animals,” he stammered. “To offer them as sacrifices to the Lord your God.”
Even I could tell it was a lie. The soldiers were already dividing the animals, not preparing them for sacrifice.
Shmuel’s voice rose in fury. “Why did you not obey? Why did you rush to take what you wanted?”
Shaul bowed his head, but his voice wavered. “I feared the people,” he muttered. “So I listened to them.”
Then came the words that still haunt me: “Because you have rejected the word of the Lord, He has rejected you from being king.”
Some say a king’s crown is made of gold. But that day, I saw Shaul’s crown fall — silently, as his pride weighed more than his trust in Hashem. He desired the praise of the people more than obedience to the will of God.
Later, Shmuel turned and walked away. Shaul grabbed at his robe, but it tore in his hands — like the kingdom tearing away from him.
I was just a servant. I swept dust and passed water bowls. But that day, I learned something I would never forget:
Even a mighty king must listen when Hashem speaks.
When he doesn’t, the throne may very well be left empty.
The king’s tent shuddered under the weight of silence, and I dared not speak. I was only a servant, nameless and unnoticed. You won’t find my name in any scroll. I served in the palace during the reign of Shaul — the first king of Israel, whose reign started with promise but ended in failure.
It all began on a day that started with trumpets and ended in tears.
For weeks, we had waited for King Shaul to return from war. Hashem — the name we use to speak of God with reverence — had commanded him to wipe out Amalek, to destroy not just their army, but their king and all their possessions. It was harsh, but Hashem’s will was clear.
When the army finally returned, I stood just outside the camp, hearing the cheering and clapping. Victory, they said. But something didn’t sit right. I saw cattle, sheep, even gold and silver being carted in. And walking behind King Shaul... there was a man in chains. Someone murmured it was Agag, the king of Amalek.
A sick feeling twisted in my stomach.
Then, the prophet Shmuel — known as Samuel — arrived.
Shmuel’s face was a storm, his gaze colder than any warrior’s. He didn’t bow or smile, and his eyes carried the weight of too many tears. The crowd parted for him in silence, and I followed from a distance.
“Blessed are you to the Lord!” Shaul exclaimed, stepping forward, a grin on his face. “I have done what the Lord commanded.”
Shmuel didn’t answer. His eyes slid past Shaul, and his voice cut through the air like thunder. “Then what is this bleating of sheep in my ears? What is this lowing of oxen that I hear?”
The color drained from King Shaul’s face.
“They... the people spared the best animals,” he stammered. “To offer them as sacrifices to the Lord your God.”
Even I could tell it was a lie. The soldiers were already dividing the animals, not preparing them for sacrifice.
Shmuel’s voice rose in fury. “Why did you not obey? Why did you rush to take what you wanted?”
Shaul bowed his head, but his voice wavered. “I feared the people,” he muttered. “So I listened to them.”
Then came the words that still haunt me: “Because you have rejected the word of the Lord, He has rejected you from being king.”
Some say a king’s crown is made of gold. But that day, I saw Shaul’s crown fall — silently, as his pride weighed more than his trust in Hashem. He desired the praise of the people more than obedience to the will of God.
Later, Shmuel turned and walked away. Shaul grabbed at his robe, but it tore in his hands — like the kingdom tearing away from him.
I was just a servant. I swept dust and passed water bowls. But that day, I learned something I would never forget:
Even a mighty king must listen when Hashem speaks.
When he doesn’t, the throne may very well be left empty.
