I reported to my
partner in dialogue how dreadful it had already been to me when I was a boy to
read this as the message of God. I told him how
already at that time it horrified me to read or to remember how the heathen
king went up to the prophet with the words on his lips, "Surely the bitterness
of death is past," and was hewn to pieces by him. I said to my partner:
"I have never been able to believe that this is a message of God. I do not
believe it."
With wrinkled forehead and contracted brows, the man sat opposite me and his
glance flamed into my eyes. He remained silent, began to speak, became silent
again. "So?" he broke forth at last, "so?" he repeated almost
threateningly. "You do not believe it?" And I once again:
"No." "What ... what..." he thrust the words before him one
after the other — "what do you believe then?" "I believe,"
I replied without reflecting, "that Samuel has misunderstood God."
And he, again slowly, but more softly than before: "So? You believe
that?" And I: "Yes." Then we were both silent. But now something
happened the like of which I have rarely seen before or since in this my long
life. The angry countenance opposite me became transformed, as if a hand had
passed over it soothing it. It lightened, cleared, was now turned toward me
bright and clear. "Well," said the man with a positively gentle
tender clarity, "I think so too." And again we became silent, for a
good while. -Martin Buber, "Samuel
and Agag,"
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