Joanna 1, Elizabeth 2

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

LEAP DAY!

Now that I have the basic sketch of Joanna's monologue, I am going to try to reduce the tangents and streamline the whole monologue. I'm going to warm up by cleaning the Elizabeth monologue up a bit.

ELIZABETH

I bore the weight for him. My son, whom all the things of this world could not touch.

I am born of priests. My husband is born of priests. All my life I bore the weight of a long family line, but when it came time to name my miracle child, I called him John. A new name in an old family. He was the herald of a new age, unburdened by the weight of the past, the old ways to God. I bore it for him.

Zechariah and I lived righteously. He served God in the temple with great diligence and so little faith. Even looking in the face of an Angel he could not believe in miracles. He was struck dumb, and my womb quickened, and he turned to me in wonder. All those years, in our shame, somewhere along the way he had dropped his faith. I bore it for him.

My cousin Mary was so young when my miracle child leapt in my womb - leapt at the greater miracle in hers. She was so young in every way. So new to shame and gossip - to all the unpleasant things those who think they are righteous do to others. Her song was pure joy and gratitude. She did not hear the irony of her words, "From now all generations shall call me blessed." All generations but her own. She had no fear of what God's will would cost her. I bore it for her.

When my son was eight, he asked for a piece of beef. He said not pork, not anything unclean. He wanted to know why he could not have what others had. Why he could not be like the others. I told him he was set apart, that God's plan required this of him. I did not tell him that there was nothing sinful in beef, that God's order was arbitrary. I bore it for him.

When my son was fifteen, I saw him turn down and offer of wine, and I wished he would just once take it - take it and come stumbling home drunk. So drunk he would sleep soundly enough that I could rip that damn hair shirt off him - just for one night. I watched him turn so easily from temptation, beat his body for it had no power over him. I tried to remember that it was a good thing - a good thing that he no longer felt the weight of temptations he could not indulge. I bore it for him.

When my son went to the desert and began to baptize, I was so proud. His name was everywhere, he did great works, and brought many to the fold. That was all he knew. He returned souls to God, he baptized the Son of God Himself. He did not worry about the kites of Rome or the buzzards of Jerusalem who circled over the head of this mad prophet threatening to spoil their comfortable world. He never felt that fear. I bore it for him.

When a small-minded housewife of a powerful man imprisoned him, he mourned only the loss of his ministry. It was only I who sat thinking, in the dark, alone with my thoughts, that if he had stayed at home he never would have come to her notice. He might have met a pretty woman who would give me grandchildren. In the dark of the prison, when they came for his head, he thought only of the souls unbaptized and of the way he had paved. He did not think of the lives not lived. I bore them for him.

I raised a prophet. I raised my miracle child to be a holy man that the things of this world could not touch. But I was not raised, so they did over me. I was raised to bear the weight. I put my body between him and all of those things that would have kept him from the divine message he bears. Anything that would separate him from the voice of God within him, that lights him up like a Christmas tree, I bore it for him.

[I'm not actually sure I made a lot of changes there, but it's a bit cleaner]

JOANNA

Salome danced when she thought she was alone. But she was never alone. I used to stand transfixed whenever I saw her. Most people in Herod's palace did. Herod's niece and step-daughter, so wrapped in pomp and protocol. But when she danced, all her silken chains fell to the floor around her, and she was bursting forth, pouring forth from some font from deep within. Bursting to live.

But she was never alone. She never felt their gazes, but they were there. And one day, her uncle-father and aunt-mother demanded that she dance for their guests. Did she guess? Guess that they were binding her up in new chains? At first she danced as freely as before, but then she stumbled, just a moment. Hundreds of male eyes were devouring her, and for all of her bursting, flowing movements, she only weaved their gazes more and more around her body. Their eyes seemed a single gaze, a single leering trap. And when she fell still, she fell silent. Everyone did. She silenced everyone with her dance. Herself most of all.

Her uncle-father croaked out a request, and she could only ask her mother what to bespeak. Not half the kingdom, but the head of a prophet. What did it matter to her, what her dance purchased? Nothing would free her of the gaze that silenced her.

I had heard the prophet in the dungeons speak. Everyone in the palace had. He spoke as Salome danced - as if no one could touch him, as if only in speaking was he finally unbound. Even as he sat in chains. He never withered under the gaze, as did she. But the trap on her fell on him as well. She silenced everyone with her dance.

Whenever people went away from the prophet in the dungeon, their voices rang louder for days. If I had been with John when they came to take him, would I have spoken for him? If they had come when I saw John irrepressible and singing rather than Salome silenced?

Salome silenced everyone, herself most of all, but it was my silence that they called perverse. They had silenced us all when they trapped her in their gaze. The only thing that made her free became her greater slavery. They said I grew strange. Silence does that to you.

Then there was a gaze like the turning of a key. I could have been lost in those eyes. I wonder if His gaze ever truly left me. No other gaze could harm me so long as I was in His. My name is Jesus, he said. Tell me yours.

Joanna. There were gasps around us, but I dared not break His gaze. Will you come follow me, Joanna? Yes. He broke my silence.

Chuza was unhappy. He had wanted his wife back as she was, so busy and bound in silken chains, not silence by a gaze nor freed from all her bindings, as he saw her now. He returned, but I stayed. I stayed and followed Jesus.

I travelled with the other women who knew what it was to be silenced. Who knew what it was to be asked to speak at last. I was there until the end. And when He died, after saying nothing in His own defense, I feared I would be silenced forever. I had shouted in the crowd, but others shouted over me. Their voices thundered in my ears and the roar silenced me. Of that Sabbath I remember only stillness and silence.

And when I spoke, on that Sunday, of the hope the angels had delivered to us, I heard the roar of disbelief, of grief, stop the ears of those who heard. I spoke, but we were silenced. I could not find my voice. Then He was with us, and His gaze fell upon me. For forty days, we gazed upon Him, and then He rose and left us.

For a moment, I believed he met my eyes alone. Perhaps we all felt that way. The next words, I felt, were for me. That the last thing He told me was why I had been silent, why still I could be silenced, "John baptized you with water, but in a few days you will be Baptized with the Holy Spirit."

The wind that came was a deafening roar. The flame was blinding. It burned it all away - the eyes ringing Salome, the roar of the crowd that had shrieked for death all around me. All faded but the still, quiet voice in my heart. And all around me, there was singing. I scarcely knew when I sang and when I did not or where I wandered. I felt no eyes on me, although they told me I drew every gaze. They told me crowds stopped to listen. More eyes than ever fell on Salome, but I did not see them. They did not touch me. They say many argued with me, and tried to shout me down, but I did not hear them. They say that my voice rose against them, that I spoke in every language at once. I was only singing, irrepressible and unbound at last.

They say the wind spread, and the flame, that day, in the crowd. They say other women took up my cries. They said I silenced any who came against me. I have been silenced. I hope they are wrong. They said every woman who heard me was converted. I hope, only, that they turned to speak."

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Retake

I spent a lot of today thinking about how to handle the possession of Joanna - even if I could get away with glossing over it. My current attempted solution is to refigure what I did yesterday.

"I used to love to watch her dance. Salome. Herodias's daughter, Herod's niece. Most people in the palace did. She seemed suddenly free. I had little pity for the woes of the Roman princess. Whatever those at the synagogue said my husband Chuza and I were not so lost in our faith and our traditions as that. But you could not deny that she was bound, in silken chains even tighter than any I had felt. But when she danced, she was free. Her body flung itself about, wild and passionate and bursting to live.

She transfixed me. The way she danced when she thought she was alone. Then I saw her on the day she danced for her uncle-father and aunt-mother. Hundreds of male eyes devouring her, cheering her on, and her own so free and flowing and beautiful movements becoming trapped in their leering gaze. It seemed a single thing, their eyes forming one trap. She silenced everyone with her dance. She silenced herself first. She silence every woman in the palace for days. Only Herod spoke, and though he offered her half the kingdom, nothing would free her from the trap of his gaze on the flesh she had bared in order to free it from her silken wrappings.

She silenced herself. She could not even imagine what to ask for. So her mother told her to demand the head of a prophet. And she was brought it on a silver platter. I said nothing. She had silenced everyone with her dance.

I had heard John speak, in the dungeons. Everyone in the palace had, and his followers came and went more than anyone talked about. He spoke as Salome danced - as if no one could touch him, as if only in speaking was he finally free. Even as he sat bound in chains. No one could bind him. He danced all the time. And with his words, the world seemed to shift around him. Our gazes fell on him, and he seemed to draw strength from them the way Salome never could for her dance. He seemed free in our gaze. And whenever anyone left his presence, whether in praise or anger, they left speaking. Their own voices rang out louder for days after.

If I had been with John when they came to take him, would I have spoken? If the last thing I had seen was not Salome silenced at last but John irrepressible and singing? They say he sang. Would I have spoken for him then? Would I have spoken at all?

I was silent, and they called it perverse. Did they not see that Salome had silenced us all? That they had silenced us all when they bound her in their gaze. When they took the only thing that made her free and turned it into a greater slavery? They said I grew strange. Silencing does that to you.

I let them lead me, pull my chains to guide me. Chuza took me to the new healer, thinking John had left a curse on me that only another holy man could remove. It was in His gaze that I found the words again. He met my eyes, and I felt all the other eyes upon me fade away. He asked my name, and He gave me permission to speak. Joanna. I am Joanna.

His name was Jesus, He replied. Will you come follow me, Joanna?

I said yes. He broke my silence.

It wasn't what Chuza had been looking for. He heard my mind, and my mind was to follow the eyes of the man who had set me free. As far as He would have me go. Chuza thought he had traded one demon for another in his wife, and he went home. But I stayed. I spoke my mind that far. But I silenced Chuza. I looked only at Jesus, and I silenced Chuza.

I followed Him through thick and thin. I travelled with other women. Women who knew what it was to be silenced. Women who knew now what it was to speak. I was there until the end, and when He died, I feared I would say nothing. I shouted in the crowd, but others shouted over me. I could not scream loud enough to be heard. The roar of the crowd silenced me, for all I shouted.

Of that Sabbath I remember only stillness and silence.

And then on Sunday, we came to say goodbye. The women whom Jesus had given leave to speak and freed from our flaxen chains. Who had gazed on us and set us free of all the gazes that had silenced us. Freed us from the fate of Salome. He was gone. And though angels said hope was not lost, we did not see Him. His gaze did not undo what the crowd had silenced.

But still I spoke. Still I spoke, and said that He had risen. I was not yet believed, but somehow His gaze seemed still to live with me. His gaze that cancelled out the silence. And then He came again, and in His gaze, I knew that I would be heard, though I had not yet guessed how."

Monday, February 27, 2012

Matthew 14:1-12

The main problem with the monologue is that I don't have the repeating theme yet - Elizabeth's was "I bore it for him." I need to figure out what that button is for Joanna. Hopefully that'll come as I keep writing.

The account of the beheading of John the Baptist doesn't say anything about Joanna, so I end up imagining her there. What was she doing there in the first place? Some fictional accounts of her life suggest that her family had become Hellenized, but it could have been simply that they were driven to dire straits, didn't particularly care about the politics, or simply wanted to do what they were good at. But it must have been hard to practice your faith properly in that house. It must have been hard to feel a true part of the religious community working for that house. I can imagine her feeling lost.

And then there's the Desert Prophet, whom some said was the Messiah, staying in the dungeons. So close. How could you not wander down? I imagine all of Herod's household wandered down at some point - to mock, to gawk, and perhaps even some to listen. I imagine him perking up when she came down, uncertain why. Uncertain what she came to see. Knowing only that she was lost, and this man claimed to offer second chances. People came from encounters with him changed.

"When he spoke, I felt the world shift. The law of the prophets, the old ways going back to Adam and Eve, it was all shifting from under foot. I had never been entirely attached to all of it. I had never been a fanatic. I had never even been a very good Jew. It didn't shake my world to have all those things, the old covenant, slide away. I knew many people it threw - many people who couldn't bear to let go. I tried to understand, but I never did.

They said later he infected me. It was a lie, as they said it. He didn't plant anything new in me. I wished he had, at times. No, he just sent the foundations sliding out from under my feet. It wasn't that I was sorry to see them go. I just couldn't have imagined what would take their place.

He never had the chance to show me. I was there for the end of the dance. The dance of Salome, Herod's step-daughter. A talented one, in her way. She only wanted to dance. She threw herself into it, and all the men swarming around her thought it was for them. But she only danced. Danced and danced, for no one but herself. I envied her that - that she had a way to express who she was, even if she never dared to speak it. Even when Herod offered her half the kingdom, she looked up, surprised to find any man there. Surprised as ever by their lust but willing to use it. She asked her mother what to ask for. She could not imagine having a voice of her own.

But then, neither could I, while I was in that house. I flew to John, to see him before he died. It never occurred to me to speak for him. Not the world he changed around me, not the slipping foundations, not seeing Salome dance to feel herself move. When she danced, everyone watched and no one saw her. Women turned away, even her mother, in embarrassment. She silenced everyone with her dance, including herself. All the eyes on her stopped every ear to anything she might say.

She asked for the head of John the Baptist, and I never thought to speak for him. I always thought that was why the demon came."

That's a bit sloppy and needs some work, but there might be something in that - Joanna finding the way to expression that is affirming and empowers others to speak.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Joanna, Wife of Chuza

I have a better idea where I want to go with her today. She probably witnessed the striptease that ended John the Baptist, and what a contrast that is with her participation in the Descent of the Holy Spirit in Acts 1-3. She would even have been considered as one of the potential replacements for Judas as one of the twelve apostles, if they had considered any women. I can only imagine how different the Catholic Church and the Christian faith might have been if it had been her name drawn.

I think I want to structure the speech around the contrast of three scenes - in Herod's palace where she did not dare speak for John, did not dare speak and felt herself driven mad with it (possession and madness being two sides of the same coin), when she tried to tell everyone about Jesus's resurrection and was disbelieved, and then finally, her Speaking after the Descent of the Holy Spirit.

What I don't know quite how to work in is her possible relationship (granddaughter) to Theophilus for whom the two books by Luke were ostensibly written. It's a fascinating connection, but I'll have to toss in around in my mind for awhile before I know quite how to work it in.

"For a moment, I believed He met my eyes alone. Foolishness, I know, there were so many of us there. Perhaps we all felt that way. But I could not help thinking that His next words were for me - and perhaps for Peter. An explanation of why I had not had the courage to speak, and why they had not believed me when I had the courage to speak. He said, 'John baptized you with water, but in a few days you will be Baptized with the Holy Spirit.'

The wind that came from heaven was deafening. The flame was blinding. It burned away everything that had held back my voice. I could no longer see or hear anything but the still, quiet voice in my heart. I scarcely knew when it filled my throat and poured from my lips and when I remained silent, transfixed with the love of God coursing through me as I had never known. Not even when I saw my Teacher on the cross.

For all the words I did not say in that court, the words that would not have been heard by the decadent of Rome, the lustful old men gawking at a young woman besides whose bare flesh a prophet's life was nothing. For all the words I could not keep straight to announce the miracle of salvation that could not break through the grief and desolation of my fellow, my own doubts sticking my words to my throat. For all the words I never said to convince others to follow us along our way in turn. All the words that did not draw Chuza along with me away from Herod's house, along the way of the Nazarene I followed [need to check on this]. For all the words I had ever held back or stumbled over, now I spoke.

They say I spoke in every language at once. They say I spoke so well every man that passed stopped to listen and those too far away to see me heard just as clearly and never guessed it was a woman that spoke. They say other women took up my cry, that they spoke in their turn, but all I knew was that the deafening wind whipped around them, and the blinding flame spread. They say every woman who heard me was converted. This must be rubbish, but I hope that they all, at least, began to speak."

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Mary Magdalene

Since this is a big name, I am going to take it in stages. Tonight, I'm looking at the introduction of Mary Magdalene (among others) in Luke 8:1-3.

"Soon afterward he went on through cities and villages, proclaiming and bringing the good news of the kingdom of God. And the twelve were with him, ² and also some women who had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities: Mary, called Magdalene,from whom seven demons had gone out,³ and Joanna, the wife of Chuza, Herod's household manager, and Susanna, and many others, who provided for them^[a] out of their means."

It's a strange introduction of all three of these women. Luke makes a point of saying that they weren't just philosophical converts but women healed of evil spirits (perhaps explaining why they could pick up their lives and follow after). And then, at the end, the suggestion of the women in the group as the bankroll. Of course, I love the idea of the money-managers of the disciples being the women. Honestly, I think I may have to do a passage on Joanna wife of Chuza, Herod's household manager next. It would line up more neatly with the passage on Elizabeth.

What a change that must have been - married to a leading member of Herod's household. Accounts of her suggest she is Luke's source for the reason for John the Baptist's death. Did she believe in John? Was he what sent her into the arms of Christ?

She was one of the women at the resurrection, and she is an apostle later. I think I may have to learn more about her. Because she went from a servant of Herod to devoted follower to Jesus to witness to the resurrection to apostle of Christ.

And I'd never heard of her.

When Jesus healed her of an infirmity or demon, did that free her and her husband of having to work for Herod? When he healed her of her infirmity or demon, did that free her of her husband?

For Joanna, her conversion seems to be something remarkable - she was living an ordinary and earthly life when one day her life changed because she found Jesus. Mary Magdalene was being tormented by seven demons. She must have felt she was already in hell. When the suddenly, the man who would open their way to heaven set them free.

Elizabeth 1

Friday, February 24, 2012

"I bore the weight for him. My son, whom the things of this world could not touch.

I am born of priests. I married a man born of priests. I bore the weight of a long family line, but when the time came to name my miracle child, I called him John. A new name in an old family, for he would be a new kind of priest, and he would not be weighed down with the traditions and ways of the past. I bore it for him.

My husband and I lived righteously. My husband served God in the Temple with great diligence and very little faith in miracles. He believed in God, but he did not believe that God would send an angel to tell him of a miracle. He was struck dumb, and when my womb quickened, I believed for him. My husband could not carry his faith through the years of our shame in the sight of all the people - the necessary suffering to mark our miracle child. I bore it for him.

My cousin Mary was so young when she came and my miracle baby leapt in my womb - leapt at the greater miracle in hers. Leapt at the unbelievable miracle. She was so young in every way - she who could not yet imagine the shame it would bring her to bear the Son of God. She was so new to shame, to gossip. New to all the unpleasant things that those who think they are righteous do to others. She sang only praise of God, and in the pure joy of her prayer, I doubt she heard the irony of her words, "From now on all generations shall call me blessed." All generations but her own. She could not comprehend the weight of shame that would come to her. I bore it for her for a time.

When my son was eight, he asked to try a piece of beef. He wanted for a moment to be like everyone else, not to be set aside for God, just for a time. He said it wasn't pork, he wasn't asking for anything unclean. He was so young, too young to understand why God asked such things of him. I was not, so I bore it for him.

When my son was fifteen, I saw him turn down the offer of wine, and I wished he would just once take it - take it and come stumbling home drunk. If nothing else so he would sleep deeply enough that I could rip that damn hair shirt off of him for one night. I watched him turn from temptation and beat at his body because it had no power over him. I tried to remind myself that it was a good thing. That he was blessed to be free of temptations he could not indulge. He would not have to feel that weight. I bore it for him.

When my son went to the desert and started to baptize, I was so proud. His name was everywhere and I knew he did great works. That was all that he knew. That he returned many souls to God and that he baptized the Son of God Himself. He did not every worry about the forces of Rome and the elders of Jerusalem who circled like buzzards, wanting to stop this mad prophet spoiling their comfortable world. He never thought of them. I bore it for him.

When my son was in prison because of a small-minded housewife of a powerful man - when his life and ministry were cut short by a strip tease, he sent his men to speak to Jesus. He mourned only the lost of his ministry. I sat thinking that he would never have come to her notice if he had stayed home, and perhaps a pretty woman would give me grandchildren. John never thought of the lives not lived in prison. I bore them for him.

I raised him to be a prophet. One whom the things of this world would have no power over. But they do over me, because I was not. I was raised to bear the weight. I put my body between him and all of that pain, so that he could be free to serve God. Anything that would have kept him from the divine message he bears, that lights him up like a Christmas tree - I bore it for him."

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Elizabeth and Mary

So, I haven't had any luck tracking down Elizabeth's lineage or even common names in the line of Aaron, so I thought I would work the Visitation into the next bit. With the theme of Elizabeth's monologue aiming at Elizabeth standing between John and all the concerns of the world from which he is exempt, it's startling to think of Mary in the context of that. Here she is, the virgin who ends up nearly divorced in disgrace. So easily we could see the Visitation as Mary fleeing to the one person who might understand her situation (which she did find in Elizabeth), but it's also remarkable to hear the Magnificat when you think about what Mary must have known was waiting for her at home. "For now all generations shall call me blessed."

Mary then lists reversals that God will make - the mighty brought down to lift the humble. And God will expose His virgin mother to shame. He will also rescue her, but Elizabeth too endured shame before she was rewarded with a miracle. The miracle child was the more blessed for the shame Elizabeth endured first, as Joseph's belief and sheltering of Mary was the more remarkable for not coming naturally to him.

Mary seems in the Magnificat immune to such concerns. In the monologue, I imagine Elizabeth not immune to them. In fact, I imagine her bearing the weight for John and Mary both.

"List of names.

Elizabeth. Elizabeth who married Zechariah. Elizabeth the curst, who bore no child for her husband. Who lived righteously, but at whom others looked with suspicion. The curst. They say she is righteous, but why then is she barren? They say her husband served the Lord with great labor and so little faith in miracles. They say he went into the Temple alone one day and came out mute. Zechariah, the one struck dumb, the husband of Elizabeth the curst, who thought her line would end with her.

But after Elizabeth and Zechariah came John. A new name. A new name in an old family. A miracle, a promise. A new kind of priest from the old line of priests. The fulfillment of a promise, and not just the one that struck my husband dumb. I am born of priests, and I bore the son of a priest, but nothing could have prepared me to raise a prophet.

My womb quickened and my shame was gone. I was to have a miracle child. When most my shame had been piled on, God showed all the gossips, all the judges of this world that my shame had been all for His greater glory. I endured the gossip and the darkness so that the light might shine the brighter. I bore the weight. I would bear it again.

He leapt in my womb at Mary's approach. My cousin Mary, so young, so unprepared for the shame that it would bring her to bear the Son of God. Mary was so new to shame, new to gossip. [New to all the unpleasant things that people who think they know what is righteous do to others.] So full of light and praise and holiness that she never imagined what the world would do to her for living outside its precepts - even if she did it for God. Mary, Mother of God, who could not imagine that the world would turn on her for following God's will. Or perhaps she simply did not care. "From now on all generations shall call me blessed" she said. All generations but her own.

I should have taken the warning. My son was like her. My son was immune to the things of the world. He was raised set aside for God."

I will have to winnow all of this down, but probably the best way to do this is to write what comes and then pull out the stuff that's useful on Sundays to create a polished monologue of reasonable length. Plus, I can always add back in if the plays goes in a different direction.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Ash Wednesday

Because this is a half week, I thought I would start with a Biblical woman for whom I already have an idea where I want to go. So, Elizabeth, John the Baptist's mother.

I read the first chapter of Luke (skipping the Annunciation), and there were two facts I had not thought about before that struck me. The first is that Luke makes the point of telling us that Elizabeth was also of the House of Aaron. So she was raised, from the start, in the life of a servant of God, the people set aside to the tending of the temple and service of God's house.

The second is that the objection that the people around Elizabeth raise to the name John is that no one in her (or Zechariah's, I assume) family is named John. Considering what I already wrote from her imagined perspective, I think this must have been a statement she was making. This boy will be a different kind of servant. He is not a continuation of the old service that his parents' families have been doing. He is the first sign of a new covenant. Of course, John the Baptist is known as the last of the Old Testament prophets, but he is also the beginning of the New Testament. So the new name from an old family is precisely right.

I'm not as sure how to work this into the monologue without just "When I was a little girl..."

Perhaps I could find names that are in the line of Aaron and start with Elizabeth reciting them? What is her lineage? Do we know it anywhere. And then she could end the litany with, "Zechariah and Elizabeth. Elizabeth, the curst, who bore no child. Who lived righteously with her husband, who served in his turn the Lord with so much will and so little faith - at least in miracles. Elizabeth, who thought she would end her line. But after Elizabeth and Zechariah came John. A new name. A new name in an old family. A miracle, a promise, he was. And the fulfillment of a promise. Not just to us. I am born of priests, and I bore the son of a priest. But I could not have imagined what it took to raise a prophet."

Not a bad start.

Samson's Women

Mardi Gras!

Because I can't get this whole thing out of my head, I am going to go ahead and admit: I have become somewhat obsessed with the Samson and Delilah story. I think perhaps because it's so much more than what it's always presented as: a great man who's one flaw is his terrible taste in women (there are actually THREE Philistine women Samson goes for that end up landing him in trouble - although not as much trouble as Samson's first wife ends up in - OUCH).

However, what it's really about, and the Bible is very clear on this, is how God planned all of that. Samson's parents are worried when they first hear that he wants to marry a Philistine woman, and the Bible says it's because they don't know that it's His plan to have Samson start the uprising against the Philistines on her behalf (they burn her at the stake in a misguided attempt to "appease" Samson for remarrying her to someone else when he wonders off in anger after their honeymoon).

But really, it's Delilah that I see at the heart of the reason why the Samson story is actually important. As I started working on her monologues, I found it very interesting thinking what Samson's kind of faith and devotion and abstinence (from hair cutting of all things) must look like from the outside. Samson seems like he was something of a bear of a man who could love more than most. And the point of his story is not that if he hadn't married that tramp he would have led Israel to freedom, it's that God never really left him. His birth was prophesied, and his parents were given instructions (once his father shut up and believed his mother) not to cut his hair. And even Samson seems to have thought that meant that God would leave him if ever he violated that command.

But God didn't. When Samson was blinded and put on display, as if he were defeated, as if God's gifts to him were no more than a magic spell that had a countercharm, God helped him pull the pillars down. Perhaps the loss of that kind of easy sign of morality - like all the trappings of religion that have the outward face of difficulty but are actually so much easier than just being a good person - takes away the power to do God's work as if it were nothing. But it does not remove God's grace from you.

Samson pushing at the pillars, struggling for the first time in his life to do God's will, was even more so a wonder among men in that moment. By losing his outward signal of purity, he was able to learn that his purity of spirit could not be broken as if like a magic spell. God is not the strict totalitarian we so often imagine. All He wants is for us to come to Him. All He wants is for us to do His will. And He will always assist in that goal.

This Lent's Project

With Ash Wednesday coming up, I have been thinking about how this year's lenten reflections should go. With Advent, I found a very nice project taking the daily gospel reading each day. I thought that this would be the first time I repeat a devotion. After all, I started by reading through smaller books of the Bible, then to the decades of the rosary, then to a prayer book based around the Sunday mass readings, then finally to the daily gospels.

I had planned to repeat the daily gospels, but I just had another idea. The main pros of this new idea would be something I would create that goes beyond this blog two people (that I love, don't get me wrong) read and the other would be treating this devotion not as something separate from my creative and productive life as a theatre student but as a part of it.

So the idea: what if I worked on creating monologues from the perspective of different women in the Bible? I was thinking about the post I wrote on parents of prophets v. parents of apostles and what I could do with Mary Magdalene and the Woman of Samaria that I love so dearly. Perhaps the best way to do this would be to read their stories and reflect on them through the week and aim to write a monologue for them by week's end.

It would be a nice way to continue the escalating demand of these devotional writings and have the added bonus of being something I could weave into a piece that I take into the wider world.

I am also considering (and quite worried about) another idea for what I will do for Lent: sit up straight the entire time. It gets tasking and even painful after awhile, particularly when I need to sit at the computer for an extended period of time. But it would be a taxing physical thing that was good for me. That can be hard to find, so I think I have to at least try to do it.

So, a preliminary list of women:

Elizabeth*

Woman of Samaria*

Mary Magdalene*

Hannah

Virgin Mary?

Peter's Mother-in-law

Martha*

Mary (her sister)

Delilah

Esther

Ruth

Woman caught in adultery

Herod's Step-daughter (not Wife, although she'd also be interesting)*

Pilate's Wife

It could be a very interesting blend of inspiration and the cost of ministry and the Call of God with a list like this, which is what I think I would be going for here.

Horrifying

Read this article: http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/news/one-towns-war-on-gay-teens-20120202.

To everyone who thinks that you can be pro-gay but just want it to go away and not be talked about. This is what happens.

Lord, what is it that we do in Your name? When did we forget that we are to be instruments of Your love?