The Robe of Power: An Example of the Literary Genius of the Bible Writer, Samuel

By Timothy S. Wilkinson

www.timothywilkinson.net

My earlier blog discussed the genius of the authors of the Bible, a genius that is sometimes not apparent because it is lost in translation. Over the course of the next few blogs I wanted to share some of the literary elements of the David story that have impressed me. I hope that they might help some of my readers to look at the work of Samuel, Nathan, and other Bible writers in a new way.

Samuel, in particular, was skilled at layering complex metaphors into his writing. The first one of these that we will consider is the me’il: a cloak or coat. Samuel (and his successor, Nathan) uses this as a symbol of authority and rulership throughout Samuel’s life—and even after it.

The garment is introduced in 1 Samuel chapter 2 verse 19, where we learn that every year Samuel’s mother, Hannah, brings him a new meil woven by her own hands. The verse first points out that Samuel wore an “ephod”—an apronlike garment worn by the priests and Levites when they were serving at the Tabernacle. This is Samuel the Levite, the Prophet-to-be. But he is also Samuel the child, and his mother’s annual weaving of a “cloak” for him reminds us of both her sacrifice and the struggle that Samuel faced all his life: his dual identity as a hero and leader and a simple man plagued by his own doubts and fears.

In chapter 15, verse 27 Samuel’s childhood “cloak” has now become his robe of office. After the Prophet denounces Israel’s new king, Saul, Saul makes a desperate attempt to get Samuel to help him save face before the people. He grabs Samuel’s meil and, as Samuel walks away, tears it. Once again it appears as a symbol: the tearing of the cloak becomes the tearing away of royal authority from Saul. (We also get a glimpse of Samuel’s personality here in his wit at immediately turning this event into the basis for a poetic denunciation).

The next appearance of the cloak is in chapter 18 verse 4. Following David’s defeat of the giant Goliath, Saul’s firstborn son Jonathan (the crown prince of Israel) offers his meil to David. Once again it is a symbol of rulership. Jonathan’s bestowal demonstrates his willing transfer of his rights as crown prince to David.

Samuel and Saul’s estrangement in chapter 15 began with Samuel’s using a meil as a symbol of Saul’s rights as ruler. In chapter 19 verse 24 Saul comes in pursuit of David, chasing him to the School of the Prophets run by Samuel in Samuel’s hometown of Ramathaim. Samuel defends his School with supernatural power, and Saul strips himself naked and writhes on the ground for a day and a night, humiliated. This becomes the ultimate fulfillment of Samuel’s prophetic statement: Saul strips himself of his royal garments, or divests himself of his kingship.

In chapter 24, Saul is using his army to hunt David through the wilderness, determined to find the young man and kill him. But David has his own army, a gathering of malcontents whom he has welded into a deadly guerrilla army. While Saul “eases nature” in a cave, David sneaks up and cuts off the “skirt” of Saul’s meil. (1 Samuel 24:6) David almost immediately regrets the action. David’s remorse over his cutting off the skirt of Saul’s cloak is more understandable when we now see the meil as a symbol of kingship. David has here “cut away” the kingship without divine authorization.

In confronting Saul over the above incident, David now uses the scrap of cloth he had cut from Saul’s me’il as a symbol of his own power over Saul—yet another example of “he who has the cloak has the power.” (1 Samuel 24:12)

Saul, having chosen to take a firm stand against Jehovah’s anointed one, David, spirals toward his ultimate destruction. Earlier in his reign he had instigated a campaign against the spirit mediums, or witches, who were operating in Israel. Now, in a desperate attempt to learn what to do (since Jehovah will no longer answer him), Saul goes to the Witch of Endor (1 Samuel 28:8). This is the penultimate instance of clothing as a symbol of rulership. Just moments before learning of his own impending death and the final transfer of power to his enemy, David, Saul removes his clothing yet again in order to put on a disguise and avoid being recognized by one of the witches he had condemned. Just a few verses later (vs. 14), the “ghost” of Samuel supposedly appears. (Clearly this is not actually Samuel’s ghost—whether it is a malevolent spirit or simply the illusion of a clever hoaxer is a subject for another time). But “Samuel” is identified by—of course—his prophet’s meil.

Chapter 31 records Saul’s death at the Battle of Mount Gilboah. In verse 9 he is once again divested of his clothing, lying naked in his final defeat.

I do not believe that Samuel and Nathan manipulated the truth to include such interesting and complex metaphor. They developed this account in the way that every brilliant writer does—by finding and highlighting thematic elements that helped them to convey the subtext of their work. In upcoming posts, I will discuss further examples of their literary skill in putting together a story that has captivated readers for 3000 years and provided the basis for one of the greatest legends of all time.

Lost in Translation

Most of us have grown up making silent excuses for the way the Bible is written. It sounds quaint, simplistic, redundant—even childish at times. This must be because it was written “a long time ago,” we tell ourselves. All of the prose in the Hebrew/Aramaic Scriptures (or Old Testament) is a violation of the most basic rule of good writing: show, don’t tell. Sentences are always beginning with “and” or “thus,” which our English teachers taught us never to do. Run-on sentences, laundry lists of names or places, statements of the obvious, and a small vocabulary—all of this and more incline us to read the Bible as though it were written by an ignorant people from an unenlightened time.

                The reality, though, is that it is we who are ignorant. The problem lies not in the writing, but in the translation and in our reading.

                Translation is always a tricky endeavor. An internet search for “engrish” will provide a plethora of examples. To illustrate the point, though, imagine trying to translate the following with no comprehension of idioms.

 “Yo! Johnny! What’s the word?”

“You’ve got nerve showing up here. How’d you track me down?”

“A little bird told me you’d be here.”

“What—did my lawyer give me up?”

“That ambulance chaser? You’re nuts. Why do you want a lawyer to thrown a monkey wrench in the works?”

“Yeah, OK. I’m just trying to stay ahead of the curve here, you get my drift?”

“Well, the tables have turned. Let’s talk turkey.”

“Yeah? And I get immunity?”

“That ship has sailed.”

“Of course. And the DA shows her true colors. That apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“You leave her old man out of this. He was a good egg and you know it.”

“I don’t deserve this.”

“That’s just the way the cookie crumbles.”

A translation would likely end up sounding something like this:

“Hello, Johnny. What is the word?”

“You have nerves appearing in this place. How did you follow me down?

“A small bird informed me that you would be here.”

“Did my attorney provide me with up?”

“He chases emergency vehicles? You are snack foods. Why do you want an attorney to hurl a monkey’s tool into the moving parts?”

“Yes, Yes. I am just trying to remain in front of the curvature that is here. Do you receive my coast?

“Well, the furniture has rotated. Let us speak in the language of turkeys.”

“Yes? And I will be protected from the disease?”

“That boat has already disembarked.”

“Of the route. And the Da exposes the real tints that she owns. A piece of fruit lands on the ground near the trunk.”

“You should leave the elderly gentleman belonging to her outside. He was an egg that was satisfactory, which you know.”

“I do not deserve this.”

“That is how the baked good breaks apart.”

                We should notice two things about this translation. First—idioms do not lend themselves well to translation. It’s not just a matter of the meaning not coming across clearly. Of equal importance is the fact that the personality of the speakers, their tone, attitude, background and a host of other details about them disappear in the translated version. We have no trouble picturing the speakers in the first exchange—in fact, you might have even envisioned where they lived, what time period they lived in, what social strata they belonged to, etc. All that information came, not from their words, but from the types of words they chose. And all of that information is, literally, lost in translation.

                The second thing we should notice is that the translation turns both speakers into idiots. When their speech is not nonsensical, it is ignorant or juvenile. If we read the translation without the benefit of the original, we would assume these were simpletons (perhaps with serious head injuries).

                This is precisely what happens when we read the Bible. Ancient Hebrew is a language of idioms. Even the best translation of this sort of idiomatic speech fails to convey anything accurate about the speakers. It makes them sound like ignorant simpletons.

                The reality is that many Bible writers were truly brilliant. My favorites, the prophet Samuel and his successor Nathan, crafted a history with layers of intricacy, symbolism, subtextual themes and ideologies that rivals the very best poetry and prose at any time in history. I think that sometimes, in our determination to establish the authenticity (and/or divine origin) of their accounts, we downplay the role that these men played as writers, and the skill with which they practiced their craft. In the following blog posts, I hope to illustrate this skill in a way that reveals the genius of these writers that is all too often buried by the sincere efforts of translators whose work is science, and not art.