ila!” The receptionist’s voice was just short of a bray.  “Your six o’clock manicure is here.”

“Shh.”  Lila shot the woman a look of aggravation. “You’ll wake Sam.” She watched as the man, now sprawled across her barber’s chair, twitched in restless slumber, his dark lashes feathering across his rugged cheeks, his massive shoulders more than filling the chair.

It happened every week. Judge Sam Nazar would show up for a shave and a trim, and within minutes his chin would fall to his muscular chest, his eyelids would droop, and a gentle snore would come rumbling from Lila’s corner of the salon. Sometimes he even talked in his sleep, sharing the latest courtroom intrigue in a low murmur only Lila heard and never shared.

The other stylists found it amusing. “Slumbering Sam” they called him—when he was fast asleep and out of earshot.

Wide awake, seated behind the bench in his flowing black robe, Judge Sam was a formidable sight. Only a fool would poke fun at such a giant in the Dallas judicial community. One of the youngest on the bench, Sam had a hard-earned reputation and a hard-driving style. Hadn’t he tossed drug dealers behind prison walls for life without parole? Didn’t he routinely send greenhorn attorneys running from his courtroom, their tails tucked between their trousered legs, afraid of disbarment or worse?

And the death penalty? An easy call for Judge Sam. He’s sentenced dozens of men to their deaths without blinking an eye or shielding a tear—if his countenance could be trusted.

The legends that swirled around Sam Nazar were legion, though how accurate the stories were—well, that was anybody’s guess. Like that rumor about his wife burning to death in a tragic fire soon after their wedding. Somewhere in West Texas, people said, though nobody had newspaper clippings to prove it. Or the old yarn that he’d chased off a dozen gang members with a bone. A bone? Folks were crazy.

Then there was the tale about Sam killing a runaway lion at the Dallas Zoo. Witnesses said he didn’t even have a gun, just wrestled the lion to the ground and broke the animal’s jaw.

One look at his hands—twice the size of most men’s—and Lila believed that one. Judge Sam was the law, and everybody in the Metropolex knew it. Judge Sam was also in love with her, and nobody even suspected it.

Me! Lila! Not a society type in sequins and furs—a stylist at a downtown salon. A nice place, sure, but she’d hoped for better someday. When Sam strolled into her life, she thought she’s found her ticket to riches and comfort. Even if he did talk about his God more than she liked, his tailored suits and designer ties told her there was gold underneath his high–and–mighty exterior.

But he didn’t give her money or gifts. He only gave her his love. At least that’s what he called it. She’d heard the word before, plenty of times, and it usually meant something else altogether.

He didn’t offer her his name or promise they’d have a future together. He only offered his head in her capable hands every Thursday and his arms wrapped around her slim waist every Saturday night. “Liii–laa! Your next appointment is here.”

Ignoring the insistent voice of the receptionist blaring over the salon speakers, Lila slid a styling comb through Sam’s hair and cast an admiring professional gaze on the natural body and dark, generous waves beneath her fingers. He wore his hair longer than any judge in Texas and didn’t care who complained about it. Instead he’d fix his piercing black eyes on hers and issue an order: “Comb it any way you fancy, but take no more than an eighth of an inch off the ends. Hear me, gal?”

She looked down at him now, her scissors flashing in the artificial light of the Cutting Edge, and sleeked a damp clump of hair flat between her fingers, sliding the sharp blade along the edge. Snip. One–eighth inch fell to the black–and–white vinyl squares beneath her feet. Snip. Another cascade of wet ends drifted to the floor. Lila worked in silence, blocking out the hubbub around her in order to concentrate on the man who’d come to mean much more than a greenback tip in the soda glass propped by her salon mirror.

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She’d never told a soul how she felt about Sam. Wasn’t sure she knew herself. He was surly and unpredictable and—truth be told—dangerous. He also had a charisma about him that hinted at old money, serious social connections, and Texas roots that went all the way down to molten rock, best she could tell.

Of this she was certain: If she’s met Sam a few years earlier, he might have kept her from chasing after all the wrong sort of men—the kind Sam threw behind bars every chance he got. They’d all been physically strong but morally weak, every one of those men, and their weaknesses had proved to be their undoing. Problem was, when they fell, they never failed to drag her down another notch with them.

Sam rolled his broad shoulders, trying to get more comfortable in her hair even in his sleep. The innocent action sent a cool shiver tripping up Lila’s spine. Strength in a man always got her attention. It made her skin tingle and her breath catch and her imagination run wild Sam Nazar was all about power. Powerful muscles wrapped around a powerful mind acquainted with powerful friends in high places. He scared her almost to the point of fainting when he dropped in her chair every Thursday afternoon. Maybe it was better that he snoozed while she snipped. It made her less nervous that way. Even if he did occasionally tuck love notes in her smock pocket or whisper endearments in her ear when she bent over him with conditioner in her palms, the man definitely less threatening when his eyes were closed.

Sliding the comb beneath the long hair on the back of his neck, she smoothed the hair upward and felt a rough line of scar tissue underneath the black strands. What’s this? She’d never noticed it before. Hmm. Intrigued, she ran a fingertip along the jagged length of it.

Without warning, Sam jerked, making her jump and accidentally jab his thick neck with her scissors. In an instant he was sitting up straight, fully awake and looking none too happy. She’d barely broken the skin, but still a dot of blood blossomed into a tiny stream running down the back of his neck.

“Wh–what the—!” His eyes were angry storm clouds as he pressed an expensive handkerchief against the wound.

“Judge, I’m . . . so sorry!” She watched him stanch the small red blotch while she swallowed a lump that was climbing up her windpipe with alarming speed.

He lowered his hand and glanced at the red spot; then his eyes met hers and cooled as quickly as they’d heated. A wry smile stretched across his face. “Just a tiny scratch, sweetheart, judging by the blood.”

“W–well, you’re the judge.” A wave of relief left her lighheaded, giddy. “I’m truly sorry, Sam.” She gently touched the edge of the scar tissue hidden under his hairline. “When I found this—“

He yanked her wrist with a rough twist. “Don’t touch that.”

“Oh! I didn’t . . . you never . . .” Her relief dissipated like hair spray. She shrugged, hoping to appear nonchalant. “It just surprised me, that’s all.”

“Well . . .” He tossed her hand aside as if to dismiss the subject.  “No problem, Lila. Just a sensitive spot, that’s all. Finish cutting while my hair’s still wet, will you?

Her hands were shaking as she gathered up another section of hair. “Sensitive, you say? That scar tissue looks like it’s been there awhile. Does it still hurt?”

His voice dropped to a murmur. “Some wounds never heal.”

Oh. She guided her shears around his collar, pressing her lips shut until her curiosity got the better of her. “It’s a mean–looking line. Good thing your hair covers every bit of it. How . . . how did it happen?:

He turned to fix her with a steady gaze, giving nothing away with his eyes. “Three guesses, beautiful girl.”

Her cheeks warmed, exactly as a girl’s might, even though she’d seen three dozen hot Dallas summers come and go. “Gee, Sam. Another one of your guessing games?” She sighed in mock exasperation. “All right, first guess: Did you land on barbed wire on your daddy’s ranch?”

He laughed. “Try again.”

“Have a close encounter with a barstool in some Lone Star honky–tonk?”

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“You know better than that.” Sam never touched the stuff.

She paused, considering. “Did you find yourself at the wrong end of a jealous husband’s straight–edge razor?”

The flicker in his ebony eyes was so slight she decided she must have imagined it. “I give up, Sam. What really happened?”

His grin was a loaded weapon. “A big dog bit me.”

All day Friday Lila couldn’t get the mystery of Sam’s scar out of her mind. There wasn’t a dog in the world with a bite that wide or that lethal. Sam was hiding something from her, the creep. Didn’t he trust her? Who was she gonna tell? It wasn’t the scar that mattered, not really. The fact that he’d lied to her, that’s what pushed her buttons.

Late Saturday afternoon she was finishing up her last client, whipping off the teal vinyl cape with a flourish, when she noticed three men filling the archway into her corner of the salon. Big men, well dressed, with smiles that suggested they wanted something from her.

The minute her customer was gone the men made their move. She watched them, wary. Who were these guys—vaguely familiar and more than a little scary? She swallowed hard and waited while they circled around her.

The stocky man, jangling a set of keys in his hand, spoke first. “Lila, isn’t it? From Mesquite?”

She nodded, barely breathing. Was her foolish youth coming back to haunt her? What else did they know about her?

The man’s voice was a measured growl. “It’s come to our attention that Judge Sam Nazar sits in this chair every Thursday.”

“Yeah,” another one chimed in. “Falls asleep like a baby, we hear.” His laugh was ugly. “Must have some kinda magic in those hands, miss.”

Lila bristled. “How I serve my clients is my business.”

“Not when he’s the most influential judge in Texas.” The tallest of the three stepped closer, automatically sending her body heat spiraling.

Power. Her instincts never failed her on that count.

His eyes regarded her with a sinister glint. “We’ve also heard he talks in his sleep.”

How can they possibly know that? One of her coworkers must have spilled the beans. The jerks. Sh raised her chin defiantly. “So? Lots of people talk in their sleep.”

They closed ranks on her, blocking her view of anything except their wide-brimmed Stetson hats and predatory smiles. The tall one leaned over and whispered, “Well get right to the point, Lila. We have reason to believe that Sam Nazar killed a man. Maybe more than one.”

The blood  in her veins turned to ice. Sam, a murderer? It wasn’t possible. She told them as much.

“You’re wrong, miss. Dead wrong. Once the good voters of Dallas hear about this, Judge Nazar will be done in this town. Off the bench and off our backs for good. It’s his one weak spot, that history of his. Did you happen to notice a scar above the back of his neck?”

Her eyes widened. The puzzle pieces were falling together. Of course! The scar was put there not by a dog’s teeth but by a knife, no doubt wielded by a man who got himself killed in the process.

The men exchanged knowing glances. “All we need is his sleep–talking confession on this little microcassette recorder.” A small black box was shoved her direction. “That’s where you come in, Lila. You and your pretty face should be able to coax a confession out of the judge, right? Ask a few questions, lull him off to sleep. Bingo.”

The tall one slipped a bulging envelope out of his pocket and opened it briefly, waving the contents under her nose. “As you can see, we’ll make it worth your while.”

She didn’t have to count it to know it was a huge sum of money. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands maybe. Enough to build that better life she’d been dreaming about. Enough to start over.

“Have we made our point, Lila?” He shoved the envelope back in his pocket and patted it with a rough–knuckled hand. “You’re seeing Lover Boy on Saturday night as usual, yes?”

So they know about that, too. She shrugged, then realized she’s given herself away. Clearly they knew the score, knew she was interested in their money, too. Sam was a nice guy. No, not nice–strong. Masculine. But there was no future there. Not for a girl like her.

Sam was a murderer, plain and simple. Who was to say she wouldn’t be his next victim? Sure, she’d miss his soul-stirring kisses, but there was enough cash in that envelope to  keep her warm for decades of chilly Dallas winters. Besides, all his talk about God got on her nerves, and she was growing weary of changing the subject.

The truth was, the opportunity of a lifetime had just marched through the doors of the Cutting Edge, and she wasn’t about to throw it away.

An image flashed across her mind and disappeared just as quickly. An image of Sam waking up not in her lap but in prison. Shackled. Ridiculed. Stripped of his power. The big man cut down to size.

By her.

Sorry, Sam.

Lila took a deep breath and shoved her shaking hands into her smock pockets. “I’m listening. Tell me what you want me to do . . .”

A Truly Bad (Girl) Hair Day: Delilah
A woman like Delilah is the last person a devoted mother would choose for her only begotten man–child. But if Samson had fallen in love with a nice girl from home, there would have been no story. And my, my, was there ever a story.

Well, maybe not. Surely such attire would have been an affront to Samson’s Nazirite vows—outlined in the sixth chapter of Numbers—which included no fruit of the vine (not even raisins)no contact with dead bodies, and definitely no haircuts.

For a guy who was supposed to avoid dead bodies, Samson surely created a ton of them. The Scotsman called Samson a “frolicsome giant.” Giant, yet. Jolly and green, no. Samson’s larger–than–life exploits in Judges 14 and 15 depict a rather mean–spirited, biblical Paul Bunyan who wielded his vastly superior strength like an ax on the necks of the Philistines.

His enemies had good reason to fear Samson, of whom the banner headline in the Timnah Times might have proclaimed, “He–Man Tears Apart Lion with Bare Hands.” A feat, by the way, which he managed to do on the way to his own wedding feast.

“I am Samson; hear me roar.”

His stunts were legendary. When his bride, a foreigner, was given away to his best man instead, Samson tied the tails of three hundred foxes together in pairs, attached a flaming torch to each set of tails, and sent them running into his enemy’s grainfields, destroying everything in their path. (Think of the special effects it would take to create that panorama for the silver screen.”

The Philistines retaliated by burning Samson’s wife and father–in–law to death. Not as flashy as the fox fiasco but much more personal. Samson eventually took revenge by striking down a thousand men with the jawbone of a single donkey, a move that was flash and personal. No question, the entire book of Judges should carry a warning sticker—“For Mature Audiences Only.” The murder and mayhem quotient, already high at that point in the story, got worse.

Samson found his way to a prostitute’s bed in Gaza while his enemies slept at the city gate, waiting to kill him in the morning. Our hero outsmarted them by jumping up in he middle of the night, lifting that very gate onto his broad shoulders, and carrying it to the top of a hill nearly forty miles away. Clearly even a night of passion couldn’t deplete the super–human resources of this herculean man. Arnold, Sly, and Jean–Claude at their bench–pressing best wouldn’t stand a chance against this muscle–bound brute , though Samson needed someone to cut him down to size.

It took a woman to accomplish the task.

A woman named Delilah.

By any definition, this valley girl’s charms worked on poor, besotted Samson, who not only trusted her, he loved her. We are never told that she loved him in return, yet it’s clear that he cared deeply for her. She was not a one–night stand, like the woman in Gaza. Or an abandoned wife, like the woman in Timnah. He “fell in love” with the woman. Period. The other two women are not named in Scripture, but this mysterious woman of whom we know so little—no past, no nationality, no family—had a name, and a delectable one at that.

We know very few facts about Delilah, but the things we do know raise more questions than they answer. She lived in the Valley of Sorek, between Israelite and Philistine lands, which tells us where her home was located but not where her allegiance dwelled. Was she Philistine or Israelite? The scholars can’t agree on that one.

She had a house of her own, a rare distinction unless she was independently wealthy (meaning the bribe that followed wouldn’t have had nearly as much appeal). Or she could have been a widow.  Or a prostitute. Though if that was the case, why wasn’t she so named, since the harlot in Gaza sported that label?

Besides, if Delilah regularly sold her services, when did she find time for this long, hairy affair with Samson?

One commentator called her “The Undesirable Woman.”^[ii] The what? That was one attribute to Delilah that goes without saying: desirability. Obviously that writer never laid eyes on the lady, who must have been quite a looker to capture Samson’s eye and heart. That she was a fallen women of loose morals we have no doubt, since Samson spent time alone with her in her inner chamber—something Good Girls didn’t do.

Powerful Samson cold have had any woman he wanted, and he wanted Delilah, even though we see no evidence that she had a charming personality, great wit, boundless compassion, or gentle affection. Only one explanation remains: She was an extraordinary beauty who knew how to display her body, hair, and face to snare a man’s heart. Even strong men can harbor a hidden weakness. For Samson, that vulnerable spot wasn’t his long hair; it was Delilah herself.

Over the centuries commentators have slung buckets of mud in Delilah’s direction. Though referred to merely as a “woman” in the Scriptures, she’s since been labeled “a harlot,” “a heartless seducer,” “ a temptress,” “dark and sinister,” “a temple prostitute,” and “one of the lowest, meanest women of the Bible—the female Judas of the Old Testament.”^[iii]

The way I see it, the operative word for Delilah might be pawn.

If Delilah were on the witness stand, I’d have only one question for her: “Delilah darlin’, did you choose to be with Samson for your own pleasure and then hear from the Philistines, or did those bad boys set you up to tear Samson down from day one?” Such a technicality would merely satisfy my own curiosity, since as far as the outcome of the story is concerned, it really doesn’t matter. Either way, sooner or later Delilah was summarily used by powerful politicos with payback on their minds.

She might get our sympathy vote, though, if we knew she was coerced into it.

Most translations say “afflict” him; it literally means “tie, bind, imprison, bring low.” Yet during his tryst with the prostitute in Gaza, the Philistines waited at the city gate to kill him.

“Subdue” him? Oh sure. That’s what they told Delilah.

In truth, they wanted to bring Samson to his knees, humble him publicly, and then kill him. As with another legendary leader centuries later—William Wallace of Bravehart fame—the powers–that–be would not be appeased with a dead hero. They wanted a humiliated hero, and they needed Delilah to help them do their dirty work.

Notice they went to her directly. Not to her father, her brother, her husband, or her son, as would have been customary. Straight to Delilah. Our twenty–first–century ears don’t perk up at that, but they should. Women of the time weren’t famous for their financial acumen. Something shady was going on, and the fewer people involved, it seemed, the better.

Think Watergate. Contragate. Monicagate.

Notice that they didn’t appeal to her intellect or her sense of patriotism. No “this is for the good of the country” speeches. They didn’t entreat her with promises of physical pleasure. No “give us your lover, and we’ll find a man ten times his equal.” They didn’t aim for her tender woman’s heart either. No “if he really loved you, he’d marry you” innuendos.

They trained their oil lamps on her own weakness—greed—and took careful aim with a loaded coin.

A woman could live like a queen for the rest of her natural life on such an astounding sum. Before we condemn Delilah for the actions that followed, we might ask ourselves which we would choose: (1) the company of a violent man with a rocky reputation and shocking track record with women, who was neither a husband nor a father and who might disappear without a word of regret, or (2) the comfort of cold, hard silver that would keep a woman well fed and finely dressed for a lifetime?

Not an easy decision, then or now.

Unless the woman truly loved him.

Grab your daisies, sisters, and let’s pull off the petals, one by one. “She loved him. She loved him not. She loved him. She loved him not . . .”

Not, it seems. Delilah made her choice without hesitation.

I vote for the playful wink. After all, Delilah knew Samson well. Exceedingly well. He’d played riddles and verbal games his whole life. In fact, it was a riddle that led to his first wife’s death, so this bold question from Delilah might have struck him as mere pillow talk from his lady love, nothing more. As one commentator phrased it, “Nowhere is woman’s craft seen in its naked cruelty more clearly.”^[v] Thinking it a simple game, Samson played along.

He told fibs for sport.

She spoke truth for silver.

They went through this exercise twice more. He insisted that new ropes would hold him, then proceeded to break the ropes as if they were mere threads. He declared that if she wove his seven braids into the fabric on a loom, he’d be helpless. When he awakened from his sleep, he pulled up the entire loom—braids, fabric, and all.

Three lies. Three surprises. The third time wasn’t the charm. But Delilah—like Mrs. Potiphar, her sister in seduction—was nothing if not persistent. Notice how carefully she did not profess love for him but used his love for her like a cruel cattle prod.

Stevie Wonder may have had a top–ten hit with that title in 1971, but women have been singing that refrain for thousands of years.

“How can you say, ‘I love you,’ when . . .”

Delilah’s true nature, if not already obvious, was revealed here. No adverbs are needed to discern the tone in her voice in these lines. It’s clear the woman was whining.

Try it. Say Delilah’s words aloud. See? The only delivery that works is a pronounced nasal whine—served with cheese and a nice, crusty Philistine bread.

The same fare was on the menu for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Nag, nag, prod, prod, whine, whine. It was enough to wear the man down to the nub, exactly as his first wife managed to do two chapters earlier:

“All right, woman!” we can imagine him shouting. “You want to know the secret of my strength? Fine. I’ll tell you. anything to get you off my back.” When the truth was spoken, his doom was sealed.

One almost feels sorry for Samson.

Almost.

Delilah didn’t feel sorry for him. She felt rich.

The truth is, the silver didn’t represent Samson’s price; it was her price. She was the one who was bought and sold. Her pride, her name, her reputation, however soiled they may already have been, were not shamed for eternity.

We might not trust a girl named Delilah, but Samson did, resting his head on her lap, the picture of submission. Or stupidity, after a line of questioning like hers.

At our house this is known as “Mama Magic.” I practiced it on our children when they were tiny babies fighting sleep. After every other base was covered—clean diaper, full tummy, warm blankie—it was time for my secret weapon: making circles on their downy heads. Round and round I went to the tune of “Hush Little Baby, Don’t Say a Word.” Indeed, I didn’t have to say diddly–squat. My soft voice and sleepy circles took care of everything.

Here, though, we have an adult man and woman who were sexually intimate, so undoubtedly Delilah had more devious ways to be sure her man was thoroughly exhausted. Whatever her methods, they seemed most effective, sending Samson off to Lullaby Land with his head on her knees and his life in her hands.

It sho’nuff wasn’t because her cosmetology license had expired.

My guess is that if Samson awoke midship, Delilah didn’t want to be the one caught cutting off his source of power. She did call out a warning of sorts, but it was more likely her cue to the Philistines: “He’s out like a light! Make your move!”

Samson awakened, thinking the occasion would be like the last three, that he would shake off the ties that bound him and raise his arms in victory once more.

At this point in the story Delilah disappears from Scripture, slinking off to an ignominious end, we assume, resurfacing through the ages in paintings by Rubens and Moreau, in the writing of Milton, and even as the title of Tom Jones’s 1968 hit record about a cheating woman named —what else?—Delilah. She’s a legend, a household word, a one–name wonder about whom history and the Bible reveal nothing more. As Victor Mature said of Hedy Lamarr in Cecil B. De Mille’s 1949 classic, Samson and Delilah, “The name Delilah will be an everlasting curse on the lips of men.”^[vi] (Press, Ltd., 1996), 176.

Good exit line, mister.

Samson, however, made one more earthshaking appearance when his enemies gathered to celebrate their triumph over him. Why, oh why, didn’t they give him a haircut for the occasion, just to be on the safe side?

The temple was bulging with Philistines that day. From their viewpoint on the roof, three thousand watched as Samson was dragged out to “perform” for the assembly. Did he entertain them with marvelous demonstrations of muscle? Or with clever riddles, for which was renowned far and wide? Perhaps seeing him led there by the hand, blind and weakened, was sufficient sport for their jaded palates.

The most intriguing question of all: Was Delilah in the audience? One wonders how she could resist the spectacle. Surely her presence would be expected. We can imagine the necks craning around the temple courtyard and hear the whisper of gossips who’d found a tasty morsel to chew on.

“Is that her? Is it Delilah, in the flesh?”

“Look at that tunic, will you! Must have cost a fortune.”

“If you ask me, silver is not her color.”

Would Delilah be hailed a heroine for bringing down the mighty Samson? Or would the Philistines despite her for not standing by her man but handing him over to the authorities for a heartless reward of silver?

If she was on hand for the festivities, Delilah left her riches behind for her survivors, because few if any walked away that fateful day. Samson managed to save his reputation, if not himself, when he called on God for one last show of strength and pulled own the pillars of the crowded temple around hin, killing “many more when he died than while he lived.”^[vii]

The prophet Zechariah’s words, penned nearly a millennium later, would have served as a fitting epitaph for Samson’s grave:

A century ago a commentator concluded, “Delilah rises suddenly from darkness . . . and goes down in a horizon of awful gloom.”^[viii]Maybe Delilah left town long before that disastrous day. Or maybe the last thing she saw before her eyes closed for eternity was the strong hero she’d once brought to her knees, lifting up his eyes to the heavens, calling on a God she would never know. Of all Delilah’s shortcomings, this was by far the greatest: not that she was rich in silver but that she was poor in spirit.

What Lessons Can We Learn from Delilah?
The love of a man is to be treasured.
Oh, when I think of the hearts I trampled rather than treasured in my foolish youth! Yes, my heart got mashed plenty of times as well, but it was my own heartless tendencies that needed curbing. When men declare their love for us, we should handle them with utmost care, even if the feelings aren’t mutual. For the sake of future marital happiness, or to leave their hearts intact for another woman down the pike, let’s be gentle and trustworthy with their brave declarations.

“If only you could provide more for our family . . . ”

“Well, my father could fix anything . . . “

”Is that the best you can do?”

(Ouch! Stabbed my own self with the scissors.)

The world cuts our men down enough. Even as we enjoy it when they build us up, so should we be ready with emotional bricks and mortar for their edification.

1. What weaknesses other than his attraction to the wrong sort of women do you find in Samson? Do you see any of those same weak spots in your own life? In your man’s life?
2. What weaknesses did Delilah have? Did they ultimately serve her well or poorly? Is a weakness the same thing as a besetting sin?
3. Samson was often depicted as taking revenge for one wrong or another. Could Delilah have been seeking revenge too? For what perhaps? Is revenge ever a legitimate motive?  Why or why not?
4. Climb into Delilah’s heart. What do you see there? An angry woman? A hurt child? A deserted wife? A greedy harlot? Think of all the ways you might describe her, based on the scriptural story of your own experiences as a woman.
5. How much did the reward of silver influence her decision to deceive Samson? Have you ever taken a job simply for the money or in any way been influenced by monetary gain? What did you learn from those experiences? Are there potential Philistines in your life now, tempting you with easy money?
6. Why was Samson so easily deceived? Was that Delilah’s fault or his? Are there blind spots in your own life where you can be swayed more easily? At work? With your children? With certain friends? What could you do, specifically, to avoid being ensnared like Samson?
7. What was Delilah’s root sin? Lust? Greed? Idolatry? Selfishness? How does that same sin rear its ugly he in your own life, and what could you do to surrender it to the lordship of Christ?
8. What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned from the dark, disastrous story of Samson and Delilah?

NOTES
^[i]1. H. V. Morton, Women of the Bible (New York: Dodd, Mead & Company, 1941), 95.
^[ii] Henry Thorne Sell, Studies of Famous Bible Women (New York: Revell, 1925), 38.
^[iii] Herbert Lockyer, All the Women of the Bible (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1967), 43.
^[iv] Judges 17:10
^[v] William Mackintosh Mackay, Bible Types of Modern Women (New York: George H. Doran Company, 1922), 65.
^[vi] J. Cheryl Exum, Plotted, Shot, and Painted (Sheffield, England: Sheffield Academic
^[vii] Judges 16:30
^[viii] Morton Bryan Wharton, Famous Women of the Old Testament (Chicago: W. P. Blessing Company, 1889), 169.

_________________________
Liz Curtis Higgs is a gifted and award-winning speaker and author based in Louisville, Kentucky. She has touched the hearts and funny bones of countless women around the world, writing eight non-fiction books for women. Already a bestseller, Bad Girls of the Bible has helped women everywhere to experience God's grace anew.