Reading 1 Samuel 3:1–21
We move from Exodus into Samuel. In the stillness of the night, the young Samuel lies down in the temple, unaware that his world is about to open.
Scripture says, “The word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread.” What a haunting line. It describes not only Samuel’s world but often ours, a time when revelation feels dim, when the sacred voice seems drowned out by the noise of power, fear, and exhaustion. What does God's message sound like today? How do we recognize it? Where do we trust we can hear that word?
In Samuel's time, there was a scarcity of Scripture for most people. This was true both in the Old and New Testament eras. This scarcity was due to a mix of practical, cultural, and historical factors: All Scripture, whether Torah scrolls, prophetic writings, or early Christian letters, had to be hand-copied by scribes, often on expensive materials like parchment or papyrus. Each copy took weeks or months to produce. Scrolls or codices were costly and usually owned by synagogues, temples, or wealthy patrons, not individuals.
Coupled with the haunting line, there is a hopeful observation in the passage, "The lamp of God had not yet gone out." Again, this describes not only Samuel’s world but ours. Many do not treasure God's word, particularly through scripture.
But God has not gone silent. Divine speech often begins quietly, in forgotten corners and with unexpected people. Samuel was a child, apprenticed to Eli, an old priest whose eyesight was failing. Yet in that very dimness, both literal and spiritual, the lamp of God had not gone out. It flickered in the dark, as if to say: hope remains.
The call comes gently: “Samuel!” He thinks it’s Eli. Three times he runs, ready to serve the human voice he knows, until Eli perceives the truth that it is God calling the boy. And so he teaches Samuel a new posture for hearing: “Go, lie down; and if he calls you, you shall say, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.’”
This exchange is more than a lesson in prayer. It’s a radical transformation of power. The aging religious leader teaches the child how to listen to God directly. Eli does not hoard authority; he passes it on. He recognizes that revelation belongs to the next generation. In a world that often silences the young, this is holy humility.
When Samuel finally listens, he hears a difficult word. This is a word of accountability for Eli’s household, for the corruption that has taken root in the sanctuary. Samuel’s first prophetic act is to speak truth that unsettles the status quo. God’s call, it turns out, is not simply for comfort, but for courage.
For those of us who long for justice, this story is both an invitation and a challenge. Listening is not passive. It means being ready to hear what disrupts our comfort. It means receiving the voice of God wherever it may arise, in the child, in the refugee, in the earth herself, groaning for renewal.
In our own time, the word of the Lord may seem rare again. But perhaps it is not absent, only unheard. The Spirit still calls out in the night, through liberation movements, through cries for ecological healing, through the brave whisper of conscience that says, “Another world is possible.”
Samuel reminds us that the future of faith depends on people who can say, even in uncertainty, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” Not to the loudest or the most powerful, but to the still, small voice calling for justice, truth, and love.
God calls to Samuel in the stillness, and at first he mistakes the voice for Eli’s. Three times he runs to the old priest, until Eli perceives that it is God calling the boy. Then Eli, in an act of humility rare for his age and power, teaches Samuel how to listen:
This is not a story about quiet piety. It is a story about courageous listening, about hearing the voice that unsettles us. Samuel’s first message is not one of comfort but of judgment, a word of accountability for the corruption that has taken root in the house of God. The call of God, it turns out, demands both compassion and courage.
Again, in our own day, perhaps the word of the Lord feels rare. The sacred voice seems drowned out by the noise of vengeance, nationalism, and despair. But maybe, like in Samuel’s night, this voice has not gone silent, only unheard. The lamp of God has not yet gone out. It still flickers in the cries of those we would rather not hear: the hostages and the prisoners of the world, the soldier and the protester, the bereaved mother and the orphaned child.
The call of God may come not to the powerful, but to those still capable of listening, those willing to receive God's truth, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”
Listening in such a time is an act of resistance. It refuses the numbness of propaganda and the paralysis of despair. It opens us again to the radical truth that every life is sacred, every voice worthy of hearing.
May we keep the lamp burning.
May we listen deeply.
And may we have the courage, like Samuel, to answer when the night calls our name.
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