There are things a university can teach, things it can investigate, things it can demonstrate, and things before which its most distinguished professors, notwithstanding their impressive academic credentials, must respectfully acknowledge the limitations of their intellectual jurisdiction. A university can teach a physician to dissect the human body, an engineer to calculate the forces sustaining a suspension bridge, an economist to interrogate the movements of capital, and a physicist to investigate the extraordinary constitution of matter. It can confer bachelor’s degrees upon the diligent, master’s degrees upon the accomplished, and doctorates upon those who have ventured into the deeper territories of scholarly inquiry. It can assemble professors of international distinction, establish laboratories equipped with instruments of astonishing sophistication, and accumulate libraries containing the intellectual inheritance of centuries. Yet there remains a dimension of existence described in the Holy Scriptures that cannot be comprehensively investigated through the ordinary instruments of empirical science, much less mastered merely by accumulating academic qualifications. For Scripture presents a universe inhabited not only by visible creatures but also by invisible spiritual beings, governed ultimately by the sovereign authority of God. And nowhere does the intersection between earthly power, forbidden spiritual knowledge, and the mysteries of the unseen emerge more dramatically than in the extraordinary account of an unnamed woman who lived approximately three thousand years ago in a small settlement called Endor. She possessed no recorded academic qualifications, occupied no professorial chair, published no peer-reviewed journal article, and belonged to no university senate. Yet her brief appearance in the biblical record has generated theological controversy of such extraordinary longevity that entire generations of scholars have completed their doctoral studies, retired from their professorships, and departed this world while the questions raised by her encounter with Israel’s first king have remained stubbornly alive. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the Witch of Endor!
Before anyone begins contemplating the establishment of a Faculty of Necromancy, complete with a Department of Familiar Spirits, a postgraduate diploma in Advanced Divination, and a doctoral programme in Communication with the Departed, let us establish the boundaries of our inquiry with uncompromising clarity! Scripture expressly condemns occult practices, including divination, sorcery, spiritism, and consultation with the dead (Deuteronomy 18:10–12; Leviticus 19:31; 20:6). My purpose is not to glorify forbidden spiritual practices, recommend their practitioners, or suggest that the mysteries of darkness constitute a legitimate alternative curriculum to the revelation of God. Rather, it is to examine what Scripture actually records concerning the spiritual realm, consider contemporary accounts bearing intriguing similarities to biblical narratives, and establish the magnificent implications of the victory accomplished by Jesus Christ through His death and resurrection. For there is a question that has occupied my imagination ever since I first heard certain extraordinary accounts concerning people reputed to possess forbidden spiritual knowledge. What if, somewhere in an obscure village, in a dilapidated mud-walled dwelling whose roof has apparently been engaged in a prolonged and losing battle with the elements, there lives an elderly woman of such spectacularly unkempt appearance that even the village goats might reasonably question her commitment to elementary personal grooming? Imagine her seated upon a battered wooden stool, wrapped in garments whose original colours have long surrendered to the combined assaults of smoke, dust, and antiquity, with a crooked walking stick resting beside her and an assortment of mysterious objects scattered across the floor. She has never attended a university, has no acquaintance with differential equations, possesses no understanding of artificial intelligence, and would probably regard a doctoral dissertation as an exceptionally elaborate method of wasting perfectly serviceable paper. Yet suppose, purely for purposes of illustrating the claims we shall examine, that she possesses access to some forbidden spiritual knowledge of the kind associated with the woman of Endor. Suppose further that, inspired by malice and operating within the spiritual darkness against which Scripture warns, she believes herself capable of directing harm towards a person whose life is unfolding hundreds of kilometres away. What an extraordinary collision of two worlds! On one side stands the magnificent edifice of modern civilisation, with its universities, military establishments, financial institutions, and technological accomplishments. On the other sits our imaginary elderly practitioner, without electricity, internet connectivity, a bank account of any distinction, or even the elementary comforts of a respectable sitting room, yet supposedly claiming access to information that the celebrated institutions of modern knowledge cannot furnish!
Now place within this imaginary drama a distinguished university professor, a man of formidable intellectual accomplishments whose name is preceded by a magnificent procession of academic titles and followed by an equally impressive collection of professional designations. He has spent decades interrogating the frontiers of human knowledge, supervised doctoral candidates, published scholarly articles, addressed international conferences, and acquired an enviable reputation for intellectual brilliance. His office shelves groan beneath the weight of academic publications, his walls display framed certificates of extraordinary distinction, and his students approach him with the reverence ordinarily reserved for the custodians of profound wisdom. He can explain the most intricate theoretical relationships within his discipline, defend his arguments before formidable academic audiences, and reduce an intellectually overconfident doctoral candidate to respectful silence with a single devastating methodological question. Yet suppose someone were to claim that our imaginary village practitioner could observe his movements through some mysterious means and direct hostile intentions towards him without his knowledge. What instrument in his laboratory would establish the truth of that claim? Which research methodology would conclusively identify its supposed mechanism? Which doctoral qualification would automatically furnish him with the spiritual discernment necessary to evaluate it? His intellectual achievements would remain entirely genuine and admirable, but they would not, merely by virtue of being academic achievements, settle the theological questions raised by such an allegation. The professor might be the undisputed authority in his faculty, but that authority would not make him omniscient, any more than the absence of academic credentials would establish the truth of the practitioner’s claims.
Or consider a decorated military general, a gentleman whose uniform glitters with medals, whose shoulders bear the insignia of high command, and whose mere entrance into a military installation causes junior officers to rearrange their postures with astonishing speed and precision! He commands thousands of soldiers, supervises sophisticated intelligence operations, and possesses access to surveillance systems capable of detecting movements across considerable distances. His orders can mobilise armoured vehicles, aircraft, artillery, and entire formations of disciplined personnel. Yet imagine him returning home after a successful military exercise, entirely unaware that someone in a remote village claims to be directing spiritual hostility against him. His intelligence officers might detect an approaching enemy battalion, intercept hostile communications, and identify suspicious movements along an international border. But could their instruments establish whether the extraordinary claims attributed to our fictional practitioner possessed any spiritual reality? Would the general order an armoured brigade to surround the mud-walled dwelling? Would he instruct his artillery commander to calculate firing coordinates against an elderly woman seated beside a smoking cooking fire? Would the Chief of Defence Forces convene an emergency meeting of the National Security Council to discuss the alleged strategic capabilities of a crooked walking stick? The absurdity of such imagery is intentional, but the underlying question is serious: military power, however formidable, does not automatically confer knowledge of every dimension of existence described in Scripture. The general’s command over earthly forces is not equivalent to sovereignty over the unseen realm.
And what of the mighty businessman, that magnificent gentleman whose commercial empire stretches across counties and whose financial statements contain figures so impressive that ordinary citizens require several attempts merely to count the zeros? He owns factories, warehouses, commercial buildings, fleets of vehicles, and perhaps a splendid residence surrounded by manicured lawns and guarded by a security establishment whose personnel maintain an appearance of perpetual suspicion towards the general public. His boardroom decisions move millions of shillings, his investment portfolio is monitored by highly qualified financial advisers, and his movements are coordinated by a personal assistant whose diary appears to possess greater authority over his daily existence than the laws of nature themselves. He travels in an expensive vehicle, carries several mobile telephones, and receives financial intelligence from institutions whose research departments employ economists of considerable distinction. Yet imagine that somewhere beyond the reach of his corporate surveillance systems, an unknown individual claims to possess occult knowledge concerning his affairs. The businessman may have insured his buildings against fire, his vehicles against accidents, and his commercial operations against numerous identifiable risks, but no conventional insurance schedule contains a scientifically validated premium for the alleged operations of a village necromancer! His auditors may reconcile every shilling in his accounts, but they cannot establish the truth of an invisible spiritual accusation merely by examining his balance sheet. The contrast is almost irresistibly comic: a commercial empire whose annual turnover could finance the construction of an entire village supposedly threatened, in the imagination of its fearful owner, by an elderly practitioner whose most conspicuous capital asset is a wooden stool!
Let us, however, avoid confusing the vividness of this imaginary drama with proof that such events occur in the manner alleged. Neither old age, poverty, unusual appearance, rural residence, nor an unfamiliar cultural practice constitutes evidence of witchcraft, and no person should become the object of suspicion merely because another individual has experienced misfortune. Our fictional practitioner is a literary caricature, not a description of any actual woman or man. The three contemporary accounts we shall encounter are reports conveyed to me by other people, not incidents whose supernatural explanations I have independently established. Nevertheless, the caricature serves a legitimate purpose: it dramatises the unsettling contrast between the extraordinary confidence modern human beings place in their intellectual and material accomplishments and the questions raised by Scripture concerning spiritual realities beyond ordinary observation. If the Bible is accepted as divine revelation, its testimony concerning spiritual beings and spiritual conflict cannot simply be dismissed because those subjects do not appear in a university prospectus. Equally, the Bible’s authority cannot be enlisted to authenticate every modern tale of mysterious screens, supernatural mirrors, or remote spiritual attacks. The distinction is fundamental. We must believe what Scripture reveals without pretending that Scripture has verified what particular storytellers allege.
And this brings us to the central question: if spiritual powers exist, as Scripture teaches, what authority do they possess, what limits govern their operations, and where does the believer find genuine security? Must the distinguished professor abandon his scholarly confidence and surrender to fear? Must the military general conclude that the weapons at his command are useless against every danger he cannot see? Must the prosperous businessman conceal his achievements, disguise his circumstances, and live perpetually suspicious of elderly villagers whose economic fortunes have been less spectacular than his own? Or has God provided, through the person and finished work of Jesus Christ, a foundation of spiritual confidence that neither intellectual accomplishment nor material prosperity could ever supply? It is precisely here that the Witch of Endor becomes an extraordinarily instructive biblical encounter, not because she offers humanity a superior system of knowledge, but because her story confronts us with the mystery of forbidden spiritual practices, the limitations of earthly authority, and the terrible consequences of seeking supernatural counsel outside the revealed will of God.
Our journey therefore begins in 1 Samuel 28, during the closing days of the reign of King Saul, a man whose political career had commenced with extraordinary promise and was approaching a conclusion of almost unbearable tragedy. Samuel, the prophet who had anointed him as Israel’s first king, had died and been buried in Ramah. The Philistines had assembled their armies against Israel, and Saul, surveying the approaching military catastrophe, became profoundly afraid. Scripture records that his heart trembled greatly (1 Samuel 28:5). This was no ordinary citizen experiencing the understandable anxiety of an approaching conflict. This was the king of Israel, commander of armies, occupant of the royal throne, and a man who had once enjoyed extraordinary proximity to the workings of divine providence. Yet his royal authority could not silence his fear, his military establishment could not guarantee victory, and the crown upon his head offered no protection against the consequences of his persistent disobedience. He therefore sought divine guidance, but the biblical record delivers one of the most chilling statements in the Old Testament: “And when Saul enquired of the LORD, the LORD answered him not, neither by dreams, nor by Urim, nor by prophets” (1 Samuel 28:6). The king had submitted his inquiry through every recognised channel, but the heavenly communication system, so to speak, returned no response whatsoever! And what followed was an astonishing expedition into forbidden territory, undertaken by a king who had apparently decided that if heaven would not answer through the channels God had authorised, he would seek an answer from the very practitioners whose activities he had personally outlawed!
The tragedy becomes considerably more devastating when we remember that Saul’s predicament had not emerged without warning. Years earlier, the prophet Samuel had confronted him over his disobedience concerning Amalek, declaring that obedience was better than sacrifice and that rebellion was as the sin of witchcraft (1 Samuel 15:22–23). Saul had repeatedly demonstrated an extraordinary capacity to substitute his own judgement for divine instruction, while maintaining the outward appearance of religious legitimacy. He had wanted the privileges of kingship without the discipline of obedience, the authority of divine appointment without the inconvenience of divine correction, and the blessings of God without the surrender of personal preference. Now, with the Philistines approaching, the terrible consequences of that contradiction were becoming unmistakable. The man who had persistently resisted the word of God was desperately seeking another word from God. He had treated obedience as negotiable when the kingdom appeared secure, but suddenly discovered an urgent appetite for revelation when the enemy assembled for battle. There are few human contradictions more remarkable than the tendency to disregard divine instruction during prosperity and demand immediate divine intervention when disaster begins knocking at the door.
And then Saul conceived a plan of such astonishing theological absurdity that one is almost tempted to wonder whether the royal council had collectively abandoned the elementary principles of logical consistency! The king instructed his servants to find him a woman possessing a familiar spirit, so that he might consult her. Now, the biblical narrator had already informed us that Saul himself had expelled mediums and spiritists from the land (1 Samuel 28:3). The very monarch who had criminalised the profession was now seeking its services! The man who had issued the prohibition was preparing to become a client of the prohibited establishment! The royal administration had apparently discovered an urgent need for a service provider operating in a sector it had previously declared unlawful. One can only imagine the embarrassment of the king’s advisers as they contemplated the extraordinary administrative predicament: the government required the assistance of a practitioner whom the government had officially expelled! Yet the servants evidently possessed intelligence concerning the underground spiritual economy, for they promptly informed Saul that such a woman could be found at Endor (1 Samuel 28:7). The royal intelligence network, it would appear, had retained an unofficial directory of practitioners whose activities the royal government had supposedly extinguished!
The king proceeded to disguise himself, exchange his royal garments for ordinary clothing, and travel by night with two companions to the woman’s residence (1 Samuel 28:8). Behold the extraordinary spectacle! Israel’s first king, once publicly anointed by the prophet Samuel and presented before the nation as its sovereign, was now moving under cover of darkness towards the premises of a forbidden practitioner. The crown had to remain concealed. The royal identity had become a liability. The king who ordinarily expected subjects to approach him with appropriate ceremony was now approaching a woman whose profession he had personally proscribed. It was a remarkable reversal of administrative hierarchy: the outlawed practitioner had become the indispensable consultant, while the sovereign who outlawed her had become the anxious petitioner. Had the woman operated a formal reception desk, one suspects that the royal visitor would have been obliged to register under an assumed name, lest the appointment book become evidence in proceedings initiated under his own prohibition!
Upon arrival, Saul requested that the woman practise divination for him and bring up the person he would name. The woman immediately expressed alarm, reminding her mysterious visitor that Saul had cut off mediums and spiritists from the land and asking why he was laying a trap for her life (1 Samuel 28:9). Her anxiety was entirely understandable. Here was an unknown gentleman arriving at night, accompanied by two others, requesting the performance of an activity punishable under the prevailing royal policy. For all she knew, she was entertaining undercover agents of the very administration that had driven her profession underground! The poor woman was therefore confronted with a dilemma of considerable occupational seriousness: if she declined the request, she might lose a client; if she accepted it, she might lose her life! And then came the magnificent irony. Saul swore by the Lord that no punishment would come upon her for performing the forbidden act (1 Samuel 28:10). Imagine that! The king invoked the name of the God whose law prohibited the practice, in order to guarantee the safety of a woman about to violate that very law at his personal request. The contradiction had now progressed from administrative absurdity to theological catastrophe.
The woman then asked whom she should bring up, and Saul answered, “Bring me up Samuel” (1 Samuel 28:11). The request itself was extraordinary. Samuel had died. His body had been buried. The prophet whose counsel Saul had resisted during his lifetime was now the very person Saul desperately wished to consult after his death. Apparently, the king had discovered that the advice he had previously found inconvenient had become indispensable once its earthly source was no longer available! There is a devastating lesson in this reversal. Human beings sometimes despise correction while it is available, only to develop an extraordinary appreciation for its value after the opportunity to heed it has passed. Saul wanted Samuel, but Samuel was dead. He wanted guidance, but had repeatedly rejected guidance. He wanted reassurance, but his history of rebellion had already brought him under judgement. And now, rather than confront the moral significance of his predicament, he sought a forbidden route to the very prophet whose warnings he had previously disregarded.
Then occurred the event that has made Endor one of the most mysterious locations in biblical history. Scripture declares that when the woman saw Samuel, she cried out with a loud voice (1 Samuel 28:12). The text does not tell us precisely what caused her cry, and we must not manufacture certainty where the inspired narrative supplies none. Nevertheless, the scene is arresting. The woman who had been approached as the supposed specialist in communicating with the departed suddenly emitted a cry of alarm at the appearance of the very figure she had been asked to summon! Whatever the precise explanation, the dramatic effect is extraordinary. The practitioner appeared to have encountered something sufficiently unsettling to provoke an immediate and audible reaction. One might reasonably observe, without pretending to know her thoughts, that the proceedings had taken a turn capable of disturbing even the person expected to preside over them! And matters became more complicated still, for the woman immediately recognised the identity of her visitor and exclaimed, “Why hast thou deceived me? for thou art Saul” (1 Samuel 28:12). The disguise had failed! The anonymous nocturnal client was none other than the king who had outlawed her occupation! The woman who had feared a possible government trap now discovered that the government itself, in the person of its highest executive authority, was sitting before her requesting the prohibited service! Saul, however, was evidently in no mood for a prolonged discussion of constitutional propriety, professional licensing, or the apparent inconsistency between his public decrees and private conduct. He instructed her not to be afraid and demanded to know what she had seen.
And here we must confront the extraordinary substance of the biblical account, rather than merely admire its dramatic peculiarities. The woman of Endor was not simply alleged, by some anonymous village storyteller several centuries afterwards, to have possessed mysterious knowledge concerning the departed. The encounter is recorded in the canonical Scriptures themselves. The author of 1 Samuel tells us that the woman described a supernatural figure ascending from the earth, and when Saul pressed her further concerning its appearance, she described an old man covered with a mantle, whereupon Saul perceived that it was Samuel and bowed himself with his face to the ground (1 Samuel 28:13–14). Notice the remarkable progression of events! The woman reported seeing something; the king requested its description; the woman supplied identifying features; and Saul recognised the figure as the prophet Samuel. The text does not say that Saul himself saw the apparition directly. It does, however, proceed to record a conversation between Saul and the figure whom the narrator repeatedly calls Samuel. And the conversation was not an exchange of inconsequential pleasantries, such as one might expect between elderly acquaintances unexpectedly reunited after a prolonged absence! The prophet delivered a devastating pronouncement concerning the king’s disobedience, the transfer of his kingdom to David, the defeat of Israel, and the approaching deaths of Saul and his sons. This was no ceremonial visit from the departed prophet, no opportunity for nostalgic reminiscence, and certainly no occasion for the king to request a reassuring assessment of his military prospects. The message was judgement, delivered with a severity that would have caused even the most accomplished royal speechwriter to abandon all hope of producing a favourable press release!
But the matter becomes considerably more consequential when we examine what followed. Samuel declared that the Lord would deliver Israel into the hands of the Philistines and that Saul and his sons would be with him on the following day (1 Samuel 28:19). Subsequently, 1 Samuel 31 records Israel’s defeat, the deaths of Saul’s sons, and Saul’s own death upon the battlefield. The narrative thus presents a prophetic pronouncement followed by events corresponding to its substance. And this is precisely why the encounter at Endor cannot be reduced, within the biblical worldview, to an amusing piece of ancient village folklore. It is part of the scriptural account of Israel’s history, and its theological significance is reinforced by 1 Chronicles 10:13–14, which explicitly identifies Saul’s consultation of a medium among the manifestations of his unfaithfulness. Indeed, the chronicler does not treat the consultation as an innocent intellectual experiment conducted by a curious monarch. He places it within the explanation of Saul’s downfall. The king who had repeatedly resisted divine instruction had sought forbidden spiritual counsel, only to receive a pronouncement confirming the very judgement from which he desperately wished to escape. What a terrible irony! Saul travelled to Endor seeking information that might help him preserve his kingdom, but returned with information confirming that his kingdom was about to be taken from him! And so devastating was the pronouncement that the mighty monarch collapsed upon the ground, overwhelmed by fear and weakened by prolonged fasting (1 Samuel 28:20). The woman who had initially feared that the mysterious visitor might arrange her execution now found herself attending to the bodily weakness of the very king whose laws had threatened her livelihood! She persuaded him to eat, prepared food, and eventually sent him and his companions away into the night (1 Samuel 28:21–25). The encounter concluded not with a triumphant demonstration of occult supremacy, but with an exhausted king receiving a meal before departing towards the catastrophe that awaited him.
And now consider the authority with which the Christian receives this narrative. The apostle Paul declares in 2 Timothy 3:16–17 that all Scripture is given by inspiration of God and is profitable for doctrine, reproof, correction, and instruction in righteousness, so that the servant of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work. The expression translated as inspiration conveys the magnificent truth that Scripture is God-breathed. Peter likewise declares in 2 Peter 1:20–21 that prophecy did not originate in the private will of man, but that holy men of God spoke as they were moved by the Holy Spirit. The Christian who receives the canonical Scriptures as the inspired word of God therefore has substantial theological grounds for taking the account of Endor seriously as Scripture presents it. We are not at liberty to discard the narrative merely because its spiritual dimensions resist reduction to the ordinary categories of empirical investigation. Nor should we quietly evacuate the passage of its extraordinary character simply because its events make modern intellectual sensibilities uncomfortable. The same Scriptures that proclaim the resurrection of Jesus Christ, the ministry of angels, and the existence of spiritual principalities also preserve this disturbing encounter between Saul, the woman of Endor, and the figure identified in the narrative as Samuel. If we profess confidence in the divine inspiration of Scripture, intellectual consistency requires us to examine this account with reverence, care, and fidelity to what the text actually says.
Yet fidelity to Scripture also requires us to distinguish between what the inspired author records and what our own curiosity might wish him to have explained. The narrative tells us that the woman saw Samuel and described his appearance, but it does not tell us precisely how she perceived him. Was the manifestation directly visible to her? Did she perceive it through some extraordinary spiritual experience? Was there an intermediary object, a reflective surface, or some other means through which the appearance was communicated? The text does not say. It would therefore be fascinating, but speculative, to imagine her peering into a mirror, gazing into a vessel of water, or observing something resembling the mysterious displays described in certain contemporary accounts. The temptation to furnish the woman of Endor with an ancient supernatural television set is almost irresistible, particularly when one considers the extraordinary inconvenience of explaining modern display technology to a person living approximately three millennia before its invention! Yet the responsible interpreter must resist the temptation to install equipment in her dwelling that the biblical narrator never mentions. The woman reported seeing a figure, described what she perceived, and the narrative proceeds to record Samuel’s pronouncement. That is sufficient to establish the extraordinary character of the scriptural account without manufacturing details concerning its mechanism. Some Christian interpreters understand Samuel’s appearance as an exceptional act permitted by God, rather than a demonstration that the medium possessed autonomous power to summon the departed at will; others have offered different explanations of the manifestation. The narrator does not pause to resolve every question concerning the mechanism. What he does unmistakably convey is that Saul’s attempt to obtain forbidden counsel did not deliver him from the judgement already pronounced against him. The woman could not reverse God’s decree. The king could not negotiate an alternative future. Samuel’s message did not contradict the divine judgement previously delivered during his lifetime. And the ensuing disaster demonstrated the dreadful futility of attempting to escape the consequences of disobedience by seeking another route to supernatural knowledge.
Nevertheless, the encounter raises a question of profound contemporary relevance. If the biblical record describes a woman who perceived and described a figure beyond the ordinary experience of the living, and if Scripture elsewhere records spiritual beings and extraordinary manifestations, are we justified in declaring that every modern claim concerning unusual spiritual perception must necessarily be false? Such a categorical conclusion would require more than a casual appeal to the achievements of modern science. But neither does the account of Endor authorise us to accept every story concerning mysterious mirrors, basins of water, or supernatural screens. The existence of a genuine biblical account is not proof of the authenticity of every contemporary claim bearing a superficial resemblance to it. The distinction between revelation and allegation must remain intact. And therein lies the proper foundation of our inquiry: not an invitation to become fascinated with forbidden powers, but an invitation to recognise the spiritual realities disclosed in Scripture and, above all, to understand the immeasurably greater authority of Jesus Christ, who, according to Colossians 2:15, disarmed principalities and powers and triumphed over them through the cross.
It was against this biblical background that a story I once heard from a visiting preacher in Mombasa acquired particular significance. The preacher, a minister with his own congregation in Nairobi and widely regarded by his followers as an anointed servant of God, narrated an extraordinary account concerning a gentleman originally from Karachuonyo, in the Luo-speaking region near Lake Victoria. According to the preacher, the gentleman had relocated to Nairobi, obtained employment, and begun prospering. His fortunes improved sufficiently for him to purchase a Mercedes-Benz, that magnificent German declaration that a man’s financial circumstances have begun moving in a decidedly respectable direction! Unfortunately, the gentleman reportedly entertained serious apprehensions concerning the reception his prosperity might receive in his ancestral village. When news reached him that a relative had died, he resolved to attend the funeral, but feared that arriving in his Mercedes-Benz might attract the attention of individuals he believed capable of practising witchcraft.
His solution was ingenious, although it also revealed the extraordinary extent to which fear had already taken possession of his imagination. He drove towards his ancestral home, stopped at a trading centre near the village, parked his Mercedes-Benz, and exchanged his respectable urban clothing for an older set of garments resembling those ordinarily worn by villagers. Having thus undertaken a remarkable programme of voluntary economic downgrading, he proceeded to the funeral on foot. The Mercedes-Benz, that splendid monument to his professional progress, remained safely outside the village, while its owner entered the mourning compound presenting the appearance of a gentleman whose financial circumstances had apparently resisted every attempt at improvement! He moved among the mourners, greeting the women and men, carefully maintaining the impression that nothing particularly remarkable had happened to him during his years in Nairobi. The transformation was complete: a prosperous urban professional had successfully disguised himself as an economically unremarkable villager, apparently hoping that the alleged practitioners of witchcraft would assess his circumstances using nothing more sophisticated than visual inspection!
But according to the preacher’s narration, his elaborate arrangements encountered an unexpected complication. Among the mourners sat an elderly man reputed locally to practise witchcraft. The old man beckoned the visitor and led him behind one of the buildings, away from the general gathering. Carrying a walking stick, he began questioning the gentleman about his life in Nairobi and the progress he had made. The visitor, conscious of the elderly man’s reputation, maintained his carefully constructed account of modest circumstances. Then, according to the preacher, the old man struck the ground with his walking stick, whereupon something resembling a modern electronic display appeared. The gentleman was reportedly shown images of himself driving his Mercedes-Benz, wearing his respectable clothing, arriving at the trading centre, and changing into the older garments before proceeding to the funeral. Having allegedly exposed the deception, the elderly man confronted him with a devastating question: “Why are you lying to us?”
What an extraordinary reversal of expectations! The gentleman had apparently believed that his elaborate change of clothing would conceal his prosperity from the supposedly dangerous eyes of his ancestral community. Yet according to the narration, the elderly man appeared to possess information extending beyond anything the visitor had voluntarily disclosed. The Mercedes-Benz had been parked away from the village, but its existence was allegedly revealed. The respectable clothing had been removed, but the act of changing was supposedly displayed. The elaborate programme of economic concealment had collapsed before the walking stick of an elderly villager! One can only imagine the gentleman’s astonishment at discovering that his carefully planned disguise, which he had evidently regarded as a masterpiece of protective intelligence, had apparently failed at the very first encounter with the person he most feared! I recount this story as I heard it, without claiming to have witnessed the events or independently verified their factual accuracy. Nevertheless, its central imagery raises a question that deserves serious theological consideration: what should a Christian make of claims that individuals engaged in forbidden spiritual practices can obtain information about people and events through means that ordinary human investigation cannot readily explain? The question becomes particularly significant when such claims are accompanied by the suggestion that the same practitioners possess powers capable of harming those whose circumstances they have supposedly observed. The fact that an account is extraordinary does not automatically establish its truth; neither does its extraordinary character, by itself, settle every question concerning the spiritual realities described in Scripture. The proper response is careful discernment, rather than either credulous acceptance or reflexive dismissal.
A second account reached me under circumstances so ordinary that the contrast with its subject matter was almost comical. I was travelling from Mombasa to Nairobi aboard the Standard Gauge Railway and had arranged for a boda boda rider, with whom I had developed a familiar rapport, to transport me from my residence to the railway terminus. The journey provided ample opportunity for conversation, and without any prompting from me, the rider began narrating an experience involving a person he claimed to know well. According to him, this individual had encountered another gentleman in Mombasa whose apparent prosperity aroused considerable curiosity. The financially less fortunate man wanted to discover the secret behind his acquaintance’s success. The prosperous gentleman reportedly agreed to introduce him to the source of his wealth. The two travelled to a locality referred to in the narration as Kilifi, within the Old Town area of Mombasa—not Kilifi County farther north. They entered a darkened room where, according to the boda boda rider, a person was conducting or supervising certain rituals. Once again, the account featured what were described as screen-like manifestations through which images could allegedly be displayed. The visitor was informed that access to the promised prosperity required a terrible sacrifice involving a member of his family. The demand reportedly became more specific when his mother was identified as the intended victim. The rider described a purported ability to make her image appear upon the mysterious display, leaving the visitor to decide whether he would consent to the proposed arrangement. Horrified by the experience, the gentleman requested time to consider the matter. According to the narration, he subsequently withdrew from his urban life and returned to his rural home, profoundly disturbed by what he believed he had encountered.
The significance of this second account lies in the convergence of its themes with the earlier narration: apparent supernatural disclosure, the promise of material advantage, the invocation of unseen powers, and the terrible suggestion that prosperity may be obtained through the destruction of another person’s life. Even if one were to suspend judgement concerning the alleged manifestations, the moral character of the proposed transaction would remain unmistakable. No amount of wealth could justify the deliberate sacrifice of an innocent human being. Jesus asked, “For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” (Mark 8:36). The question is especially devastating when the pursuit of worldly advantage demands not merely the surrender of one’s own moral integrity, but the destruction of those whom one is commanded to love and honour. The commandment to honour one’s father and mother (Exodus 20:12; Ephesians 6:2) cannot be reconciled with a supposed spiritual bargain requiring the sacrifice of a parent. And what a grotesque inversion of the meaning of prosperity it would be if a man were to acquire material wealth by destroying the very mother who brought him into the world! One would have exchanged the incomparable gift of maternal love for a collection of depreciating assets, and then congratulated oneself upon having made an exceptionally successful investment!
A third account emerged from another entirely ordinary encounter. I had developed a habit of patronising an establishment where I occasionally enjoyed ice cream, and through repeated visits I became acquainted with a security guard stationed there. During one of our conversations, he spoke with considerable confidence about practices he associated with certain traditional spiritual practitioners in Kwale County. He used an expression resembling ramli ya kioo, referring to a purported form of divination involving a mirror. According to his explanation, an individual could allegedly be made to appear within the mirror, or alternatively within a basin containing water, enabling the practitioner and the person consulting him to observe the supposed image. The guard further claimed that harmful intentions could then be directed towards the individual represented in the manifestation, with consequences allegedly following in that person’s life. It is important to distinguish such claims from established facts about the communities in which they circulate. Kwale County is home to diverse peoples, including the Digo, and no ethnic community should be collectively characterised by the alleged practices of particular individuals. The account concerned beliefs and claims attributed to certain practitioners, not an inherent characteristic of a people. Nor does the existence of a story concerning a mirror or basin establish that the alleged manifestation occurred or that harmful words spoken over an image possess the power claimed for them. Yet the repetition of similar imagery across these three narrations is worthy of theological reflection, particularly because it exposes a profound human anxiety: could a person be peacefully conducting his affairs, pursuing an education, building a business, raising a family, or enjoying the legitimate fruits of his labour, while another individual, far away and entirely outside his knowledge, seeks to direct spiritual hostility against him?
That question deserves a serious biblical answer. And the answer must begin by acknowledging that Scripture does not describe spiritual conflict as an invention of human imagination. The apostle Paul declares in Ephesians 6:12 that believers wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, powers, rulers of the darkness of this world, and spiritual wickedness in high places. In Daniel 10:12–13, the prophet receives an account involving spiritual opposition associated with the prince of the kingdom of Persia. In Acts 16:16–18, Paul encounters a young woman described as possessing a spirit of divination, whose activities generated income for those exploiting her. In Acts 8:9–24, Simon had astonished the people of Samaria through sorcery before encountering the proclamation of Christ. In Acts 19:13–20, the failed attempt by the sons of Sceva to invoke the name of Jesus as though it were a magical formula exposed the difference between genuine spiritual authority and presumptuous imitation. These passages establish that the biblical worldview includes spiritual beings, spiritual conflict, and activities associated with forbidden supernatural practices. They do not, however, establish the accuracy of every modern account attributed to witchcraft, nor do they demonstrate that every illness, financial reversal, professional disappointment, or domestic tragedy originates in occult interference. Such conclusions would exceed the evidence. Scripture itself recognises suffering arising from numerous causes, including ordinary human wrongdoing, natural circumstances, persecution, and the trials of living in a fallen world. The Christian must therefore neither deny the spiritual dimension revealed in Scripture nor convert every misfortune into evidence of an invisible attack.
But let us return to the professor, the general, the businessman, or the prosperous gentleman who has travelled from Nairobi to attend a funeral in his ancestral village. Suppose such a person becomes convinced that someone wishes him harm through occult practices. Must he now abandon his achievements, conceal his possessions, surrender his peace, and begin living as though every elderly villager were a potential spiritual executioner? Must the professor remove his academic regalia, the businessman hide his Mercedes-Benz, and the successful professional cultivate an appearance of poverty merely to avoid provoking the envy of unseen enemies? Must prosperity be disguised as destitution before one can safely attend a family funeral? If this were the necessary condition of security, then fear would have accomplished what hostility itself had not yet achieved: it would already have deprived the individual of the freedom to live openly and gratefully before God. It was precisely this question that began troubling me after hearing the visiting preacher’s narration. I found myself asking what would happen if I were the person supposedly being targeted. What would constitute my defence? Would I need to discover the identity of the alleged practitioner, travel to the village, confront the supposed source of hostility, or seek the assistance of another person claiming superior supernatural powers? Would my safety depend upon identifying every possible enemy and learning the secret procedures through which hostile spiritual intentions might allegedly be neutralised? Such a prospect would be both exhausting and spiritually disastrous. It would place the believer in a perpetual contest of occult techniques, requiring him to become increasingly preoccupied with the very practices Scripture commands him to reject. The more I considered the matter, the more compelling became the necessity of locating the answer not in the supposed abilities of witches and mediums, but in the finished work of Jesus Christ.
Yet before we arrive at Calvary, another extraordinary biblical episode demands our attention, for it presents an almost comically magnificent demonstration of the futility of attempting to overturn God’s purposes through spiritual manipulation. In Numbers 22–24, Balak, the king of Moab, became profoundly alarmed by the presence of Israel and resolved to obtain a curse against the people. Rather than confining himself to conventional military preparations, he sought the services of Balaam, a man reputed to possess extraordinary spiritual influence. The royal strategy was apparently straightforward: if Israel could not conveniently be defeated by military means, perhaps a suitably commissioned spiritual pronouncement might achieve what the army could not! Balak therefore dispatched messengers carrying rewards for divination, inviting Balaam to curse the people whom God had blessed. The undertaking possessed all the appearances of an important royal consultancy: an anxious client, a celebrated specialist, an urgent commission, and the expectation that an appropriately delivered professional service would produce the desired outcome. Unfortunately for Balak, the proposed transaction encountered a complication that neither the royal treasury nor the consultant’s reputation could overcome. God had already blessed Israel, and Balaam could not simply manufacture an alternative divine verdict to satisfy the commercial expectations of his client!
The proceedings became increasingly extraordinary. Balaam eventually accompanied Balak’s representatives, but not before his donkey perceived an angel standing in the road with a drawn sword while Balaam himself remained oblivious to the danger (Numbers 22:22–35). Here was a man sought after for his extraordinary spiritual insight, yet his donkey demonstrated superior immediate awareness of the heavenly obstruction! The animal repeatedly attempted to avoid the angel, while its distinguished rider responded with increasingly indignant blows. Eventually, the Lord opened the donkey’s mouth, and the creature addressed Balaam, who proceeded to argue with it as though a theological disagreement with one’s means of transport were an entirely routine feature of professional travel! One is almost tempted to imagine the donkey subsequently applying for recognition as an associate member of the prophetic profession, having demonstrated a capacity for spiritual perception that its celebrated passenger had conspicuously failed to exhibit! Yet beneath the astonishing humour lay a devastating lesson: spiritual perception is not an autonomous human possession, and no reputation for extraordinary knowledge can override the sovereign authority of God.
When Balaam eventually arrived, Balak arranged sacrifices and positioned him where he could observe the people of Israel. The king anticipated a curse, but Balaam pronounced a blessing. Balak was understandably furious. The consultant had been retained to pronounce hostile words against Israel, but had instead delivered what amounted to a magnificent endorsement of the very people the king wished to destroy! One can almost hear the royal treasurer demanding an explanation for the expenditure incurred in securing a professional service whose output was diametrically opposed to the client’s instructions! Yet Balak was not easily discouraged. Perhaps, he reasoned, the difficulty lay in the location. He therefore transported Balaam to another vantage point, apparently hoping that a change of geographical coordinates might produce a more agreeable spiritual outcome. Another altar was constructed, further sacrifices were offered, and the exercise was repeated. But the result remained stubbornly inconvenient: blessing instead of cursing! Balak tried again from yet another location, as though the sovereign will of God might be persuaded to change merely because the consultant had been transferred to a different hilltop! What an extraordinary royal experiment in geographical theology! The king changed the viewing platform, the sacrificial arrangements, and the immediate surroundings, but he could not change the divine purpose.
It was in this remarkable context that Balaam uttered words of enduring significance: “How shall I curse, whom God hath not cursed? or how shall I defy, whom the LORD hath not defied?” (Numbers 23:8). He subsequently declared, “Surely there is no enchantment against Jacob, neither is there any divination against Israel” (Numbers 23:23). These pronouncements arose within a particular covenantal and historical setting, and should not be carelessly converted into a universal guarantee that no believer will ever experience suffering or harm. Nevertheless, their theological significance is magnificent. Balak could commission the consultant, finance the sacrifices, select the vantage points, and repeat the exercise as often as his royal patience permitted, but he could not purchase sovereignty over the purposes of God. The hired pronouncement could not overrule the divine blessing. The king’s wealth could not manufacture spiritual jurisdiction where God had granted none. And the repeated failure of the enterprise exposes the absurdity of imagining that human beings can ultimately compel the Almighty to surrender His purposes through the manipulation of supernatural procedures.
Now consider the contrast between Balak and Saul. Balak sought to employ spiritual means against a people whom God had blessed; Saul sought forbidden spiritual counsel after repeatedly disregarding the God who had appointed him king. Balak discovered that the divine blessing could not be overturned by his commissioned curse; Saul discovered that the divine judgement could not be reversed by his clandestine consultation. In both cases, earthly authority, material resources, and access to reputed spiritual specialists proved incapable of compelling God to alter His purposes. The lesson is not that human beings possess complete knowledge of the invisible realm, nor that every modern claim of witchcraft is genuine. It is that the sovereign authority of God stands above every created power, visible or invisible, and that no spiritual practitioner, however formidable his reputation, can establish an independent kingdom beyond the jurisdiction of the Almighty.
And here, at last, we arrive at the magnificent turning point of the entire discussion. Colossians 2:15 declares that Christ, having spoiled principalities and powers, made a show of them openly, triumphing over them in the cross. What an extraordinary declaration! The apostle does not present Calvary merely as the tragic execution of an innocent man, nor simply as a moving illustration of sacrificial love. He presents the cross as the scene of a decisive spiritual victory. The same event that appeared to the hostile spectators as the humiliation of Jesus Christ is proclaimed by the apostle as the triumph of Christ over principalities and powers. The Roman authorities saw an execution. The religious opponents of Jesus saw the apparent elimination of a troublesome preacher. The disciples, overwhelmed by grief and confusion, initially saw the collapse of their hopes. Yet the apostolic interpretation reveals that something of immeasurably greater consequence was taking place: through His death and resurrection, Christ accomplished redemption and decisively defeated the powers opposed to God’s saving purposes. What appeared to human observers as the triumph of darkness was, in the eternal purposes of God, the very instrument through which darkness suffered its decisive defeat!
To appreciate the magnitude of this triumph, we must consider the immediate context. Colossians 2:13–14 declares that God made believers alive together with Christ, forgave their trespasses, and removed the record of debt that stood against them, nailing it to the cross. The triumph over principalities and powers follows this declaration of forgiveness and reconciliation. Christ’s victory is therefore inseparable from His saving work. It is not merely a demonstration that He possesses greater supernatural strength than hostile spiritual beings. It is the announcement that the accusations arising from human sin have been answered through His sacrifice, that the dominion of darkness has been decisively challenged, and that those who belong to Him have been transferred into an entirely different relationship with God. Indeed, Colossians 1:13–14 declares that the Father has delivered believers from the power of darkness and translated them into the kingdom of His dear Son, in whom they have redemption through His blood, even the forgiveness of sins. The language is breathtaking. The believer is not described as a helpless individual abandoned within the jurisdiction of darkness and required to negotiate his own release through superior spiritual techniques. He is described as one whom God has delivered and transferred into the kingdom of His Son. The initiative belongs to God. The redemption is accomplished through Christ. The forgiveness rests upon His saving work. The security of the believer is therefore grounded not in personal cleverness, social standing, academic distinction, or knowledge of occult countermeasures, but in the sovereign grace of the God who has acted through Jesus Christ.
Then comes the verse that, to my mind, illuminates the entire subject with extraordinary beauty: “For ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God” (Colossians 3:3). Consider those words carefully. Your life is hidden with Christ in God! Not hidden beneath a traditional charm. Not hidden behind a mysterious inscription. Not hidden through an arrangement with a spiritual practitioner. Not hidden by disguising your prosperity, concealing your Mercedes-Benz, or presenting yourself at a funeral in clothing carefully selected to communicate economic misfortune. Hidden with Christ in God! The apostle locates the believer’s identity and ultimate security in union with the risen Lord. The language does not provide a technical description of invisibility from occult observation, nor does it promise that Christians will never experience illness, persecution, loss, or other earthly afflictions. Rather, it declares a profound spiritual reality: the believer’s life belongs to Christ and is secured in relationship with God. Whatever hostile powers may exist, they do not possess ultimate authority over the destiny of those whom Christ has redeemed. The professor’s qualifications cannot establish that security, the general’s battalions cannot manufacture it, and the businessman’s wealth cannot purchase it. It is the inheritance of those who belong to Jesus Christ.
But the declaration of Christ’s victory does not end there. Let us listen to the words of the Lord Jesus Himself, recorded in Luke 10:19: “Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you.” What an astonishing proclamation! The seventy disciples had returned from their mission rejoicing that even the demons were subject to them through the name of Jesus (Luke 10:17). Christ responded by declaring that He had beheld Satan as lightning falling from heaven (Luke 10:18), and then announced the authority He had given them over the power of the enemy. The imagery of serpents and scorpions is particularly arresting, for these creatures represent danger, hostility, and the capacity to inflict injury. Yet Christ spoke of His disciples treading upon them, employing the language of dominion rather than helplessness. The enemy is not portrayed as an invincible sovereign before whom God’s servants must tremble. The authority belongs to Christ, and the disciples’ confidence derives from His commission. We must interpret this promise faithfully within its immediate context. Jesus was addressing the seventy disciples whom He had commissioned for a particular mission, and the passage does not establish that every Christian is guaranteed physical immunity from every dangerous creature, hostile person, or earthly affliction. Indeed, Christ immediately redirected the disciples’ rejoicing away from the subjection of spirits towards the greater assurance that their names were written in heaven (Luke 10:20). Nevertheless, the theological significance remains magnificent: the power of the enemy is not ultimate, and the authority exercised by Christ’s servants is derived from the One who possesses sovereignty over the spiritual realm. The believer’s deepest cause for rejoicing is not that demons may be subject to him, but that he belongs to the Lord whose authority exceeds theirs.
The same confidence emerges throughout the New Testament. Matthew 10:1 records Jesus giving His twelve disciples authority over unclean spirits, while Luke 9:1 similarly describes His granting them power and authority over demons and diseases. In Acts 16:18, Paul commands a spirit of divination to depart from a young woman in the name of Jesus Christ, and it departs. The authority in each case is not an independent magical capacity possessed by the human agent. It is authority derived from Jesus Christ. The apostle John adds another magnificent declaration: “Greater is he that is in you, than he that is in the world” (1 John 4:4). The context concerns the discernment of spirits and the overcoming of false teaching, but the theological principle is unmistakable. The believer’s confidence rests in the superiority of God, not in an independent spiritual strength supposedly possessed by the believer. James 4:7 consequently instructs Christians to submit themselves to God and resist the devil, who will flee from them. Notice the order: submission to God precedes resistance to the devil. The Christian is not invited to become an autonomous spiritual warrior operating through self-generated power. He is called to stand in dependence upon the Lord.
This is also the significance of Paul’s celebrated declaration in 2 Corinthians 10:3–5: “For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war after the flesh: (For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strong holds).” The apostle proceeds to describe the casting down of arguments and every high thing exalting itself against the knowledge of God, bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ. The immediate context concerns spiritual and intellectual opposition to the truth of the gospel, rather than a prescribed ritual for dismantling alleged occult operations. Nevertheless, the passage establishes the broader principle that the Christian’s warfare is not conducted through merely worldly means. The believer confronts falsehood, temptation, fear, and spiritual opposition through the resources God provides, including truth, righteousness, faith, prayer, and obedience. Ephesians 6:10–18 develops this principle through the magnificent imagery of the whole armour of God. Paul commands believers to be strong in the Lord and in the power of His might. He instructs them to stand against the schemes of the devil, clothed with truth, righteousness, the preparation of the gospel of peace, faith, salvation, and the word of God, while praying always in the Spirit. The emphasis is striking. There is no instruction to identify a particular witch doctor, obtain a counteracting charm, purchase a protective substance, or discover the secret procedures of an occult practitioner. The believer is commanded to stand in the Lord’s strength, equipped with the spiritual resources that flow from his relationship with Christ.
And what of the blood of the Lamb? Revelation 12:10–11 declares that the accuser of the brethren has been cast down and that the faithful overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony, loving not their lives unto death. Here again, the victory is grounded in Christ’s redemptive sacrifice and the faithful witness of those who belong to Him. The blood of Jesus is not presented as a magical substance to be manipulated through verbal formulas. It is the precious blood through which redemption has been accomplished (1 Peter 1:18–19), through which believers have been brought near to God (Ephesians 2:13), and through which their consciences are cleansed to serve the living God (Hebrews 9:14). The believer’s confidence is therefore not in the mere repetition of religious expressions, but in the actual saving achievement of the crucified and risen Christ. And here is where the question of salvation becomes inseparable from the question of spiritual security. It would be a grievous misunderstanding to imagine that Christianity offers merely a superior protective arrangement against witchcraft, as though Jesus Christ were the most powerful practitioner in a competitive marketplace of supernatural services. The gospel announces something infinitely greater. Humanity’s fundamental predicament is sin and alienation from God, and Christ came to reconcile sinners to their Creator. Romans 5:8 declares that God demonstrated His love towards us in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Ephesians 2:8–9 teaches that salvation is by grace through faith, not of works, lest anyone should boast. Romans 10:9–10 directs us towards faith in the risen Lord and the confession of Jesus Christ. The person who believes in Christ is not merely acquiring protection against a feared enemy; he is receiving the gift of eternal life and entering into a restored relationship with God.
Nor is this security postponed until the believer’s death. It begins in the present life. Jesus declared in John 5:24 that whoever hears His word and believes in Him who sent Him has everlasting life and has passed from death unto life. In John 10:27–29, He describes His sheep as those who hear His voice and follow Him, declaring that He gives them eternal life and that no one shall pluck them out of His hand. The believer’s confidence therefore concerns both present belonging and eternal destiny. He may face opposition in this world, but he does not face it as one abandoned by God. He may encounter suffering, but suffering does not invalidate the redemption accomplished at Calvary. He may be threatened by human enemies, but no human enemy possesses the authority to annul the saving work of Jesus Christ. This brings us back to the extraordinary imagery of the alleged screens and mirrors in the three accounts. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that someone sincerely believes another person has sought to harm him through such a practice. What should he do? The biblical response is not to surrender to panic, nor to assume that every subsequent misfortune must have originated in that encounter. He should refuse participation in forbidden practices, reject attempts to purchase occult protection, and remain grounded in the truth of Scripture. He should pray, seek the counsel of mature and trustworthy believers, and address any concrete threats through appropriate practical and lawful means. If he becomes ill, he should obtain medical care. If his business encounters difficulties, he should investigate their actual causes. If someone threatens his life or property, he should take reasonable measures for his safety. Faith does not require the abandonment of ordinary prudence, and spiritual confidence should never become an excuse for neglecting evidence, professional assistance, or personal responsibility.
Above all, he should understand that the Christian’s peace does not depend upon proving that no enemy exists, but upon trusting the God whose authority exceeds that of every enemy. This is the confidence expressed in Psalm 27:1: “The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the LORD is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” It is the assurance celebrated in Psalm 91, which portrays the believer dwelling under the protection of the Most High. It is the trust expressed in Psalm 121, where the psalmist lifts his eyes towards the hills and declares that his help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. These passages are not invitations to recklessness or guarantees that believers will never suffer. They are declarations of dependence upon the sovereign God whose faithfulness remains the foundation of their hope. Isaiah 54:17 likewise declares that no weapon formed against the servants of the Lord shall prosper, within a prophetic context concerning the vindication and restoration of God’s people. The passage must be read in its proper setting, but it contributes to the biblical testimony that God’s ultimate purposes cannot be defeated by hostile human schemes. Similarly, Proverbs 26:2 observes that a causeless curse shall not come, employing the imagery of a wandering bird. These passages do not authorise careless pronouncements concerning every alleged curse, but they do challenge the assumption that hostile words possess unlimited and independent power over human destiny.
And now, with these truths before us, let us return one final time to the man from Karachuonyo and his Mercedes-Benz. Whether the preacher’s extraordinary narration occurred exactly as described remains beyond my ability to establish. But the fear that motivated the gentleman’s behaviour is unmistakably recognisable. He believed that the visible evidence of his prosperity could expose him to dangerous hostility, and he therefore attempted to protect himself through concealment. Yet the Christian who understands the meaning of Colossians 3:3 possesses a foundation for peace that does not depend upon the success of such disguises. His security is not established by the condition of his clothing, the make of his vehicle, or the ignorance of those who might envy him. His deepest security is grounded in his belonging to Jesus Christ. Let the professor therefore pursue scholarship with diligence. Let the general command his troops with courage and integrity. Let the businessman conduct his affairs with honesty and wisdom. Let the engineer design his structures with competence, the farmer cultivate his land, the physician attend to the sick, and the entrepreneur build an honest enterprise. Let none of them imagine that material prosperity is proof of spiritual superiority, or that faith exempts them from the ordinary uncertainties of earthly life. But neither should they surrender their peace to the terrifying suggestion that somewhere, in a distant village or darkened room, another human being possesses ultimate authority over their destiny. The Christian confession is that Jesus Christ is Lord, that all things were created by Him and for Him, and that He is before all things (Colossians 1:16–17). The same Christ who triumphed over principalities and powers at Calvary is described as seated at the right hand of God, far above all principality, power, might, dominion, and every name that is named (Ephesians 1:20–21).
And here the contrast between Saul and the Christian believer becomes almost unbearably magnificent. Saul approached a forbidden practitioner seeking an answer from the dead; the believer approaches the risen Christ, who declares, “I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death” (Revelation 1:18). Saul travelled under cover of darkness to obtain forbidden counsel; the believer is invited to come boldly unto the throne of grace, that he may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need (Hebrews 4:16). Saul sought guidance from a departed prophet and received confirmation of judgement; the believer looks to the crucified and risen Saviour and finds redemption, reconciliation, and the promise of eternal life. Saul’s royal authority could not save him from the consequences of disobedience; the authority of Jesus Christ extends over every principality and power. Saul’s clandestine journey ended in terror and despair; the Christian’s journey of faith is sustained by the promise that nothing shall be able to separate those who belong to Christ from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:38–39). What a contrast! One king, trembling before the consequences of rebellion, sought a voice from the grave. Another King, having entered death itself, emerged victorious and now holds the keys of death and hell!
And so, when the university has completed its lectures, the professor has concluded his research, the laboratory has exhausted its instruments, the general has inspected his battalions, and the businessman has reconciled his accounts, there remains a question whose importance exceeds every academic distinction, every military decoration, and every commercial achievement: To whom does your life belong? For the Christian, the answer is not found in a mirror, a basin of water, a mysterious screen, or the pronouncements of a feared practitioner. It is found in the crucified and risen Lord Jesus Christ, who declared, “I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me” (John 14:6). The Witch of Endor may introduce us to the mysteries of forbidden spiritual knowledge, but Calvary introduces us to the triumph of the One before whom every principality and power must ultimately bow. The professor need not acquire another doctorate to obtain that salvation. The general need not mobilise another battalion to secure it. The businessman need not establish another security company to purchase it. Salvation is the gift of God through faith in Jesus Christ, and the believer’s ultimate confidence rests upon the sovereign authority of the One who has conquered sin and death.
Let the alleged practitioner therefore remain in her imaginary village, seated upon her battered wooden stool, surrounded by her mysterious objects and contemplating whatever extraordinary powers she may suppose herself to possess. Let the professor continue his scholarship, the general his military service, and the businessman his legitimate enterprise, without surrendering their peace to unverified tales or to the fear of unseen hostility. Let every reader understand that the central question is not whether darkness can boast of mysteries, but whether darkness can overturn the victory accomplished by Jesus Christ. The answer proclaimed by the New Testament is that Christ has triumphed over principalities and powers, that those who belong to Him have been delivered from the dominion of darkness, and that their lives are hidden with Him in God. The believer need not become an apprentice in the mysteries of darkness in order to discover how to overcome darkness. He is called to know Jesus Christ, to understand the redemption accomplished through His blood, to stand in the truth of His word, and to live in the confidence of His sovereign care.
For Saul, the journey to Endor was a desperate attempt to obtain knowledge from beyond the grave, and the knowledge he received could neither reverse his judgement nor rescue his kingdom. For the Christian, the journey to Calvary reveals something infinitely greater: the Son of God entered death, conquered it, and rose again, so that those who believe in Him might receive eternal life. The final word does not belong to the woman of Endor, to the mysterious figure she described, to the frightened king who consulted her, or to any earthly practitioner claiming access to forbidden spiritual powers. The final word belongs to Jesus Christ, the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the ending, the Almighty (Revelation 1:8). And therefore, when the fearful imagination has exhausted its catalogue of possible enemies, when the professor has exhausted his intellectual explanations, when the general has exhausted his military calculations, and when the businessman has exhausted his financial precautions, the believer may rest upon a declaration whose majesty no human language can adequately exhaust: “For ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God” (Colossians 3:3). Not merely the knowledge that darkness exists, but the knowledge that Jesus Christ has triumphed over it; not merely the awareness that hostile powers may be described in Scripture, but the assurance that none possesses ultimate sovereignty over those who belong to the risen Lord. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a truth no university degree can confer, no earthly authority can manufacture, no human enemy can annul, and no power of darkness can overthrow!