Loading Video . . .
Emily Ruth Hazel explores the human experience, beyond the labels, of an unnamed man in this beautiful, thoughtful poem responding to Acts 8:26-40 and Isaiah 56:3-5.
Isaiah 56:3-5
Acts 8:26-40
Give Me a Name
By
Emily Ruth Hazel
Credits:
Curated by:
Spark+Echo Arts
2020
Poetry
Primary Scripture
But an angel of the Lord spoke to Philip, saying, “Arise, and go toward the south to the way that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza. This is a desert.”
He arose and went; and behold, there was a man of Ethiopia, a eunuch of great authority under Candace, queen of the Ethiopians, who was over all her treasure, who had come to Jerusalem to worship.
He was returning and sitting in his chariot, and was reading the prophet Isaiah.
The Spirit said to Philip, “Go near, and join yourself to this chariot.”
Philip ran to him, and heard him reading Isaiah the prophet, and said, “Do you understand what you are reading?”
He said, “How can I, unless someone explains it to me?” He begged Philip to come up and sit with him.
Now the passage of the Scripture which he was reading was this,
“He was led as a sheep to the slaughter.
As a lamb before his shearer is silent,
so he doesn’t open his mouth.
In his humiliation, his judgment was taken away.
Who will declare His generation?
For his life is taken from the earth.”
The eunuch answered Philip, “Who is the prophet talking about? About himself, or about someone else?”
Philip opened his mouth, and beginning from this Scripture, preached to him about Jesus.
As they went on the way, they came to some water, and the eunuch said, “Behold, here is water. What is keeping me from being baptized?”
He commanded the chariot to stand still, and they both went down into the water, both Philip and the eunuch, and he baptized him.
When they came up out of the water, the Spirit of the Lord caught Philip away, and the eunuch didn’t see him any more, for he went on his way rejoicing.
But Philip was found at Azotus. Passing through, he preached the Good News to all the cities, until he came to Caesarea.
Acts 8:26-40
Share This Art:
Curious to explore a Black perspective within the Middle Eastern context of the Bible, I tagged along on the spiritual journey of an Ethiopian eunuch who has an unexpected encounter returning from a pilgrimage to the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem. When I chose to join the conversation between Acts 8:26-40 and Isaiah 56:3-5, I had to befriend my discomfort.
In the past, I’d heard the story in Acts 8 held up as a model of how to encourage religious conversion, or else framed as an example of acting in faith by taking a God-directed detour that may not make sense at first. While stories can be used to underscore a point, I’ve become more interested in engaging with stories as windows into the complex, nuanced lives of fellow humans—as invitations that allow us to connect more deeply with our shared humanity. I’m fascinated by how storytelling can powerfully shift the way we see God in ourselves and in each other.
As I had yet to hear the story of the eunuch’s spiritual transformation discussed with the eunuch’s point of view in mind, I decided to start there. Noticing that this character was presented as being unusual in multiple ways, I was moved to reimagine the backstory (as best I could, with all my limitations as someone living in another body, place, and time). I wanted to put words to what it might have felt like to walk in this person’s sandals. By giving this character attention, voice, and agency, I discovered another side of the truth emerging from the margins.
Steeping myself in the story, I first studied several English translations of both passages. Then, to support my reading of the biblical text, I searched for information on the implications of being a eunuch. What I found reminded me that the control of people’s reproductive rights by those in positions of power has taken many forms throughout history. My research also led me to reflect on the reality that government-sanctioned violence against people’s bodies in the name of service or protection is not merely a contemporary issue.
While I was aware that forced sterilization is an ancient practice accepted in a number of cultures—one that continues today—I was newly disturbed by what I read about genital mutilation in biblical times. I learned that young men who were selected to become court officials were often castrated. Supposedly, this was to keep them focused on their duties as civil servants and to make them more trustworthy in the presence of a queen or around a king’s harem. Because this surgery was performed before puberty, eunuchs’ physical development was stunted and their hormones and health were permanently affected.
I’m grateful I came across Peterson Toscano’s illuminating article “The Mystery of the Ethiopian Eunuch,”* which helped me to understand the cultural context better and to identify with the eunuch myself. Aside from being Black, single, and childless, I could relate to the theme of socialized “otherness” based on my countless experiences with living between worlds culturally and with people calling attention to the ways I don’t fit societal “norms.” Another layer of the story that began to resonate with me was the way traumas fracture one’s relationship with one’s body and create disconnection from one’s feelings, diminishing a person’s sense of humanity. Because I see the eunuch’s journey as ultimately being one of healing and restoration, I felt that it was vital to infuse the story with physicality and emotional awareness.
I was also intrigued by how the social construct of gender factors into this story about a person whose identity could be perceived as ambiguous. This sparked me to shake up some stereotypes as far as how traits such as courage, strength, leadership, and vulnerability are often conveyed in our idioms and cultural imagination as being strictly “masculine” or “feminine” rather than simply “human” qualities. (Thank you, Glennon Doyle, author of Untamed.)
In The Message paraphrase of the Bible, I was struck by how Isaiah 56:3 is interpreted: “Make sure no outsider who now follows God ever has occasion to say, ‘God put me in second-class. I don’t really belong.’ And make sure no physically mutilated person is ever made to think, ‘I’m damaged goods. I don’t really belong.’”
As I pondered the account in Acts 8, I noted that the eunuch isn’t named but is instead referred to categorically by nationality, physical/ability difference, class, and occupation. I realized it was common for the writers of biblical texts to use such demographics (in lieu of names) to describe characters who appeared only once. Still, it spurred me to consider how the decision of whether or not to include a person’s name can shape our perception of who is central to the story and who is a minor character. I saw ties between history and current events. Who is important enough to be mentioned as a unique individual? When some people are left anonymous, who does this protect, champion, or foreground? In my version of the story in Acts 8, even though some names were stated in the biblical text or could be inferred, I chose not to reference any of the characters or writers by name as a subversive way of treating everyone with the same degree of respect.
* Grateful acknowledgment to Peterson Toscano for background and inspiration: http://www.meetinghouse.xyz/everything/2017/3/23/the-mystery-of-the-ethiopian-eunuch
Spark Notes
The Artist's Reflection
Emily Ruth Hazel is a poet, writer, and cross-pollinator who is passionate about diversifying the audience for poetry and giving voice to people who have been marginalized. Selected as the Honorary Poet for the 25th Annual Langston Hughes Community Poetry Reading in Providence, Rhode Island, she presented a commissioned tribute to the Poet Laureate of Harlem in February of 2020. She is a two-time recipient of national Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Prizes and was awarded a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship for a residency at The Hambidge Center in 2014. Her chapbook, Body & Soul (Finishing Line Press, 2005), was a New Women’s Voices finalist. Emily’s work has appeared in numerous anthologies, magazines, literary journals, and digital projects, including Kinfolks: A Journal of Black Expression and Magnolia: A Journal of Women’s Socially Engaged Literature. Her poetry has also been featured on music albums, in a hair salon art installation, and in a science museum exhibition.
Emily has written more than twenty commissioned works for organizations, arts productions, social justice projects, and private clients. Currently, she is developing several poetry book manuscripts and writing lyrics for an original musical inspired by the life of the extraordinary singer and Civil Rights icon Marian Anderson. A graduate of Oberlin College’s Creative Writing Program and a former New Yorker, she is now based in the Los Angeles area.
Instagram: @EmilyRuthHazel
Emily Ruth Hazel
About the Artist
Artist in Residence 2013, Emily Ruth Hazel
Word of Mouth
In the Wake of the Storm
Circling the Waist of Wisdom
Homecoming
Runaway
Give Us This Day
Undressing Prayer
Emily Ruth Hazel
Other Works By
Related Information
The way home is a desolate road through the desert. Only my driver and I roll through the noonday heat. Ahead of us, the air shimmers.
Give Me a Name
The way home is a desolate road
through the desert. Only my driver and I
roll through the noonday heat. Ahead of us,
the air shimmers. Then out of a cloud
of dust, a man runs up behind us.
He calls out, Who are you reading?
A poet’s vision unfurls in my lap.
I’m thirsty for company, someone to walk
between these lines with me,
clear a path through my own wilderness.
The stranger says he’s well acquainted
with this writer. If he knows who I am,
he doesn’t let on. He climbs in
and we plunge beneath the words.
Whose story is this, anyway?
The one who takes a vow of silence,
an outcast whose most loyal friend is
heartache—is this a portrait of the poet
or of another? I hold the words like water
in my palms, my face reflected in them.
Back in Jerusalem, I was an unexpected guest
in God’s house. There I was dark enough
that I’d never pass as a native.
In a land of divided rooms,
neither side claims me.
Smooth chinned, voice unchanged,
even among my own, I am always other.
My educated tongue surprises.
I read the way my people envy
and despise me in the same blink.
The jewel of Ethiopia, our warrior queen,
trusts me with the nation’s treasure.
But power of the purse came with a price.
Still a boy when I was taught my body
could not be trusted, I was like a lamb
that hears the metal scraping
hot against the stone. When they came for me,
my gut churned. A boulder sealed
my throat. Only mangled moans escaped.
They carved me into a loyal servant
ashamed of my own voice.
Deep in my chest liquid rage
threatened to erupt. I tried to swallow
the unspeakable. Learned to amputate
everything I felt. Any part of me that trembled
was a danger best denied.
All the boys I knew marched into manhood
believing courage hung between their legs.
But I’m my mother’s child.
Long after the men who tore me from my home
washed my blood off their blade,
I remembered my mother
had shown me how to be brave.
Wherever I go, I’m described by my difference,
defined by what I cannot do or be, haunted by
echoes of violence known but unnamed.
Never to look into a young face and recognize
my likeness, I’m tired of being seen
as an absence, a shadow that merely calls
attention to what is touched by light.
Here in this barren place, riding with
a stranger, I feel like I belong.
The wheels of my world slow to a stop.
I step out of the story I’ve been told
must be mine. The man I’ve just met
stands beside me as we wade into a river.
He holds my shoulders. Dips me
into the muddy water. Not as I was held down
years ago. This time, I’ve chosen
to be held. I feel the muscles in my back
relax against his arm. Memory stirs,
half-awake: my mother’s gentle hands
bathe me as a baby.
Raised up again, my body breaks
the surface. Bright sky overwhelms.
Boulder rolled away, my tongue
unguarded now. Laughing and coughing,
mouth full of water and silt and suddenly a song
in a language I’ve never heard.
God of the unsung, God of the present
and the missing, God who translates
phantom pain, who holds the map of all
my scars, may this body be your temple.
Some say my branches died before they bloomed,
water too precious to be wasted on me.
Don’t let me wither under the blistering sun,
cursed for bearing no fruit.
If I can offer shelter to someone called
to walk a lonely road, maybe that’s enough.
God of the forgotten, God of the never begotten,
will my story, at least, outlive me?
Give me a name worth remembering,
a name that will never be cut off.
Emily Ruth Hazel
Acts 8:26-40 and Isaiah 56:3-5
Loading Video . . .
The way home is a desolate road through the desert. Only my driver and I roll through the noonday heat. Ahead of us, the air shimmers.
