In Sacred Journeys, the season of Lent begins with a week of reflections titled “An Inhuman Sacrifice: The Unnamed Daughter of Jephthah.” This tale from the book of Judges is a wrenching story with which to start the season. For much of my life, I wasn’t familiar with this text—they certainly didn’t teach it to us in Sunday school, and I’ve never heard it preached from a pulpit. How do we reckon with such a story that appears in our sacred scriptures?
The story of Jephthah’s daughter invites and challenges us to engage even the difficult and painful passages of the Bible—not to explain them away or to justify or excuse them, but rather to reckon with their presence and bring them out of the shadows of the scriptures. This story that we rarely hear is a story we should not forget. As we enter into this week, I find myself remembering again Phyllis Trible’s words that I shared in my introduction to this Lenten season, and of how she reminds us of the blessing that can be found in wrestling with these texts.
My version of the story of this unnamed daughter unfolds daily throughout the week, going into the gaps within the story to seek what blessing may lie there. Today’s reading begins with an invocation, the text of the story, and a bit of context for the week ahead.
Invocation: Accompany me, O God, in this perplexing season. Breathe through me, Tender Presence, when this journey of remembering takes me along painful paths.
Text: Judges 11.29-40
Context: Unwittingly caught in her father’s bargain with God to secure a victory against the Ammonites, this daughter’s only recorded words are her assent to the deal and a request for two months in the mountains with her companions. Did she weep? Did she protest? Did she become angry with her father, with God? What happened on the journey? Who accompanied her? The text invites the reader’s imaginings.
The Jewish people created stories to answer questions raised by scripture. By creating such a story, called a midrash (plural, midrashim), one could imagine the details that a text left out. While the scribes assembled many of the original, oral midrashim into written texts, to this day people still create midrashim by bringing their imaginations to the original stories. Many of the women of the scriptures, whom we often know through only a few verses, have come to life as others, individually and in groups, have imagined their lives and created midrashim.
And so we enter this season with a story, a midrash. As we begin our Lenten journey, we travel with the daughter of Jephthah and her companions into the mountains. From the perspective of one of the women who accompanied her, we imagine, we improvise, we mourn, and we remember. So let us hear The Tale of She-Who-Remembers—the story of Miriam, told by one who remembers.
Monday
We called her Miriam. Her father Jephthah had named her Mara, meaning “bitter,” because her mother died in bringing her to birth. Although no one begrudged Jephthah his grief over such a loss, it soon became apparent that Mara was hardly an appropriate name for such a daughter as this. From an early age, she displayed a passionate love of singing, dancing, and making music. Someone once remarked that surely she had been touched by the spirit of Miriam, our foremother who led the women in rejoicing with timbrels and with dancing when our people passed safely through the sea during the Exodus. The name stuck. Miriam she was.
Miriam and I were the same age; and from the time before we could walk, we were the closest of friends. We were sisters, really, and Miriam was a member of my family almost as much as my brothers or I. Jephthah was an important man, a mighty warrior, and was away from the town quite often. With his power and wealth, Jephthah gave Miriam more than enough in the way of servants and possessions, but she didn’t like being at home during her father’s absences. So she usually stayed with us. These were my favorite times . . . times of whispered stories and secrets late at night when we should have been asleep, times of sneaking away when we had chores to do, times when Miriam’s music filled the house. My parents loved to hear Miriam sing, so they overlooked the giggles and the missed chores. More than once one of us had to jump to grab a bowl or other object in midair as Miriam swung around in some spirited dance, timbrels flying, her voice so strong it seemed it would crack her open.
Questions for reflection
Did you have someone to share your secrets and your stories with when you were young? Who whispered with you into the night?
From Sacred Journeys © Jan Richardson
Aside from my wife, I have to share my secrets and stories at night. He’s my confidant.