Saturday, March 10, 2012

1 Kings 16-17

Having decided to postpone Hannah, I looked up a list of prominent women of the Bible, and I found Jezebel. I mostly looked further because I'm so used to "jezebel" meaning, well, a slut or perhaps a scheming slut, that I wondered who the real woman was. When I began her story, I wondered if I would end up pitying her.

I admit I was thoroughly intrigued by her name. Apparently in her religion (she was a Baal-worshipper) her named is the ceremonial call for Baal to return from the underworld and thus end winter (a la Persephone). That's...poetic. Also: I wonder if she ever felt like she was coming out of winter. The image alone might be reason enough to find a way to include her somehow, even despite what I'm about to say next.

After a brief browse of her story, I'm fairly annoyed that a feminist blog is named for her. I don't like the idea of her being viewed as woman who won't be silenced or beaten. To me, she seems more like, well, the woman who ran for president but lost in the primaries during this current election cycle than the one who did the same thing in the previous one.

To be of another religion isn't a sin, but trying to ram it down another country's throat is. Of course, a sympathizer could think of her as misunderstood, point out who's telling the story. But, well, stories come from somewhere. I tend to think that accusations of tyranny don't spring out of respectful, benevolent sovereignty.

Which is why I find it interesting that the first mention of King Ahab (meaning "brother of the father" interestingly) and his wife Jezebel who converted him to the worship of Baal (I know!) is followed immediately by Elijah and the widow story before we pick back up with all of the terrible things that Jezebel is doing.

So, perhaps the only way to get Jezebel in is ringing the Widow of Zarephath with her? Or having the Widow mention her? Perhaps she and Samson's first wife can share a pyre at the opening of the play?

Anyway, the Widow of Zarephath deserves something.

WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH

I had not given up easily, but I had given up at last. I held out hope, until what I thought was the last moment. And then I squared my shoulders, and I accepted the will of God. It was easier to accept my certain death. My son's was another story. So many sons, in the stories of our people. So many sons of so many mothers. We brought babies to be presented to the Lord, and some of us took it more seriously than others. Some of us had no choice but to. I never thought He would ask me for this.

But I squared my shoulders, and I did accept it in the end. Our death. A dusty, ragged-looking man came upon me then. I recognized another soul that had made a kind of peace with the world. With the ending of the world. I was wrong, of course, in most ways, but that was what I thought when first I saw Elijah. I have been told many have thought a more foolish thing upon first meeting him, but I wonder if he has met any in a more foolish state of mind or any that he made look as foolish as he did me.

He asked for a drink of water, almost as if he did not know what a precious thing that would be. I looked twice, then, and I saw in his eyes that he did know. But he asked with authority all the same. Not the whining, shouting, almost desperate authority of the officials presiding over the drought and famine of Zarephath. The authority of one who followed orders that were obeyed.

I gave it him. I wondered as I did so if I would have, if I would have so simply, had I not just squared my shoulders for death. He asked for food when he had drunk, and now I told him I had none to give. Only enough for a final meal for myself and my son. Only enough to make a small loaf - that I would rip into two pieces that were just close enough to looking even that my son would not be shamed to take the larger piece. We would eat it, one last time, together. And then we would starve to death. God only knows what we would say or do, to each other and to others, in that process, but there would be one final moment of love and grace, at least. One more breaking of the bread.

The ragged man told me not to be afraid. I wondered where he had been an hour ago, before I squared my shoulders. He said to make bread for him first. I smiled slightly, but he was serious. And, my shoulders squared, I thought I would have one final moment of kindness. One last act of generosity, before the hunger had me flying down the path of desperation and fury. For one last moment, I would be gracious. As had once been something so matter of course, for all in Zarephath, but as it had not known for some time.

Perhaps it was that thought - and the longing it provoked for those times - that made me bake the flour and oil together all in one batch. I had thought I would break it into three pieces, but something about his words stilled me. He had said, with the certainty of one who spoke for one who was always obeyed, to make him food and then to return and cook for my family. The authority in his voice, the glow in my heart at the old memory, and the squared shoulders - that is why I brought him the last of the bread I would have.

When I returned home, I found the first of God's gifts. Enough to make a little bread for my son and I to have our final meal. I was ashamed, for a moment, to think that I had held back after all. That I had thought I was being so generous to give the last of what I had. That I had tricked myself into believing myself that just and kind and immune to what hunger would bring.

But when I looked to the door, I saw Elijah. And he told me that the square in my shoulders had not been to prepare me for death. I was to be prepared for something far harder to comprehend, far harder to believe. My son and I were to be spared. I was not to have one final moment of grace and peace. I had been given an unending supply.