Moses

(Context: Exodus 3:4)

I am standing in the desert.

I am standing in the desert,
and a bush is burning before me.

A bush is burning,
and it is not consumed.

It is not consumed,
as smoke is rising from it.

It is not consumed,
as a voice is rising from it.

A voice is rising from it,
and it is calling out my name.

It is calling “MOSES”.

It is calling “Moses”
and I am afraid.

But then, more gently,
it is calling my other name.

It is calling my other name
that no one else knows.

Pharaoh (of the Exodus)

(Context: Exodus 1:12)

I am Pharaoh, ruler of all Egypt and god to all the world. Let all the world hear me: I am Pharaoh. I am known to all by many names, some shouted, some more powerfully whispered. But the only one that need survive, the only one that matters, is this: I am Pharaoh, as my father was Pharaoh and his father before him. We are all one god in this succession of bodies. This body may be destroyed, may be lost, or may be laid to sleep beside its ancestors in the grand tomb that my people are building in gratitude, in praise. But the god-king Pharaoh can never die, as this land, this people, this Egypt can never die.

Jeroboam

(Context: 1 Kings 12:20)

My friends, priests, fellow leaders, people of Shechem, and citizens of the united tribes of the renewed nation of Israel: With both humility and pride, I joyfully accept my coronation as king. With humility, since you have chosen me, a workman from the lowest of families, for this highest of honors; with pride, since with this act the people have come together to throw off the yoke of tyranny and corruption, to return this nation to the role that the prophets of its god have foretold.

Jehu

(Context: 2 Kings 9:3)

I act. I don’t think. I don’t feel. I act. I move forward by God’s command, true as my arrows, powerful as my chariot, clear as a reflection from my shining sword.

I never asked to be king. But when the Lord gives you a command, you follow it or you die.

Benjamin

(Context: Genesis 35:18)

Picture my face. Age it by a few years (though fewer than before, since I am now almost as old as she was when she died), make it thinner, with sharper eyes and straighter, paler hair, and make it, of course, female. That was the face of my mother, or so I am told.

Picture me again, a few years younger than I am now, the face now rounder, the eyes perpetually lost in waking dreams. That was my brother, at the time that he died. Or so, again, I am told. I was so young when he died, barely able to speak sentences on my own, that my memories of him are as vague as what memories I seem to have of my mother. And I know that my memories of her are false, since she died (as I am so often told) when I was born.

Asa

(Context: 2 Chronicles 15:16)

And so my mother is gone. Still alive, still well, but gone from the palace, from her place of authority. She has slipped away under the silent gaze of the moon to a place where she will be hidden, safe from capture, safe from harm, safe from me.

Joseph

(Context: Genesis 42:6)

At times, I cannot remember if I am real. Much of what I know about myself comes from stories told about me; I doubt my memory if it conflicts with them. I have always lived in a world built half from matter and half from dreams. Neither seems more lucid than the other. When I wonder if I am dreaming, I too often forget to check whether I can fly. And I sometimes forget whether flying would show me to be dreaming or to be real.

The Shulammite

(Context: Song of Songs 1:5)

It’s hot here. It’s hot here, and it’s always raining. It’s hot here, and it’s always raining, and the way people talk is strange. It’s hot here and it’s always raining, and I just forgot what the third thing was that I was complaining about. I’ll have to start the game again, hopping on my left foot this time and tossing the stones from my left hand to my right.

I wish my mother were here. I wish my mother were alive. I love my father (though he’s back at home in our city, far from here) and I love my aunt, but it’s not the same. And I don’t get to spend much time with my aunt. She’s so busy doing all the things that a queen does.

Zedekiah

(Context: Jeremiah 39:7)

This morsel is lamb, cooked in a mint yogurt, I believe, with a hint of cardamom. As usual, it is only a single bite, as small as the last segment of my thumb. Still, chewing as gently as I can, I can hold it in my mouth for a hundred heartbeats, savoring its texture, its flavor, memorizing it, until it dissolves and drifts down my throat to give my stomach a hint of its joy.

The rest of the day’s meal, as always: a loaf of bread, a bowl of lentils (still warm, this time, with sufficient salt), and a jar with enough water to last the day. The morsel was tucked under the bread, as it often is. The tiny gifts do not appear every day, but often enough that the anticipation is worthwhile, and that the experience of that day’s morsel or, if there was not one that day, the most recent, is fresh enough in memory to recall and relive throughout the day and into the night. Perhaps they are scraps retrieved from the king’s table, perhaps from a peasant’s, as one might toss a scrap to a dog. I don’t mind. I am satisfied. I am thankful. I am unashamed.

Asaph

(Context: Psalm 81:1)

I am song, and my world is song.
Just as we have dedicated this temple to God,
I have dedicated my life
To song, with song, for song.

This song is a song of God.
This song is a song of God’s mystery.
This song flows
From my mouth,from my throat, from my lungs.

But it is not my song.