I wrote this a long time ago, but it became pertinent a couple of times today. I might post another time the reasons why, but in the meantime...


Do you know the daughters of Zelophehad?
If not, you should. These women have some serious chutzpah.

We meet then in the middle of the book of Numbers. Moses has just overseen a census of the Israelites, and has been instructed regarding the passing on of land to a man?s sons. Here is what happens next:

"Then the daughters of Zelophehad came forward. Zelophehad was son of Hepher son of Gilead son of Machir son of Manasseh son of Joseph, a member of the Manassite clans. The names of his daughters were: Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah. They stood before Moses, Eleazar the priest, the leaders, and all the congregation, at the entrance of the tent of meeting, and they said, "Our father died in the wilderness? and he had no sons. Why should the name of our father be taken away from his clan because he had no son? Give to us a possession among our father's brothers." Moses brought their case before the Lord. And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying: The daughters of Zelophehad are right in what they are saying; you shall indeed let them possess an inheritance among their father's brothers and pass the inheritance of their father on to them."


I love picturing how this scene went down.
It might have happened this way.

It might have happened that the assembly was gathered there, and the meeting was going along just as it did every week. Through the dim lamp light the women could see the leaders there, faces composed and passive, just as they were every week. And there in the throng, aunts, cousins, strangers, pressing in around them, just as they were every week.

And the sisters looked at one another, because they knew it was no ordinary week. It was different.

It was different with the hollow grief at a father's death, so long ago yet still with its own fresh sting. It was different with the recognition that the only security they had was in one another. It was different because of this stirring they felt--was it courage, was it desperation, was it foolishness? Whatever it was, they knew what they had to do and once they did, it would not be like every other week any more.

And then, a pause. A quick pressing together of palms. Five simultaneous long, slow breaths. And then, a slow pushing through the crowd, toward the front, toward the leaders, until they were standing right there in front of everyone.

It might have happened this way, that as they began to speak, they couldn't help but notice things out of the corner of their eye. Like that group over there--y'know, the ones shifting from one foot to the other, staring at the ceiling, hoping that this profound embarrassment, this irregularity in procedure might soon come to an end. And those people over there, the ones with the faces becoming redder and redder and you could practically read their lips, "Just who do they think they are."

But they kept talking, and they kept noticing things. They would talk about it later. Of course, they would always remember the verdict, those simple words, "Yes, you are right. The inheritance is yours." But also, they would remember that one, with his look of amused curiosity. They would remember a woman about their age looking straight at them, nodding ever so slowly as they talked. And they would remember that old, old woman in the corner--they couldn't remember her name--and they could be wrong, but did she wink at them as they talked? And they would remember the little girls looking at them with blank faces, but with an unmistakable excitement flickering past their young eyes.

And they would wonder.

Did it really happen that way? Could it really have happened that way?

And could it happen again, in another place, on another day that started out like every other day?

And they dearly, dearly hoped so.