From the writings of Willard Spencer. For use or file or forward...
Women
Near the Cross – Seven, plus 2 men
Lenten
Monologues/dialogue
By Willard
Spencer
WOMAN WITH THE
FLASK OF OINTMENT (1) Luke 7:44-50
People called me
sensual when they saw me in the street. Women thought I had rejected
honor. Men shunned me, except some that sought me at night. I had
been condemned by almost everyone...almost everyone. There was ONE
who offered me something I really needed.
He was feasting
at the home of Simon the Pharisee. I knew him at once. I had heard
him talk about God's love. It was the longest walk I had ever taken
past all those condemning eyes. But I walked to Jesus and knelt down
at his feet. My tears rolled like rivers as I took my only valuable
possession, an alabaster flask of ointment, broke it and poured it on
his feet. The precious ointment, and my tears, were my offering, my
confession. A surly voice broke the silence. It was the voice of
the Pharisee, but I heard in his words all the years of rejection,
all the tongue wagging, the hatred directed at me. Then another
voice spoke--breaking a lingering silence after the angry outburst of
the Pharisee--it was softer. It was He. He looked at me and I knew.
I was a lawbreaker, a shamed person. I could have been flogged or
stoned. He saw my sorrow. He felt my shame. I left it there, at
his feet. From then on I would be like a newborn. Life would begin
again for me. Thank you, Jesus.
MARY AND MARTHA
(2 and 3) Luke 10:38-42
Martha:
My name is Martha. I have lived all my days in the little village
of Bethany, just a few miles east of the great city of Jerusalem. My
days have been full and quiet, filled with sounds of food, like the
hushed sound of bread being kneaded, or the swish of pots being
stirred and cleaned, and the sigh of weariness at the end of the day.
I have loved it, though as the years go by I find myself looking for
strength. Tasks that I did easily and joyfully in earlier years now
seem more burdensome, heavier, though the joy in completing them is
still there. My eyes have been fading a bit, like the westering sun
setting over the Mount of Olives. I could use a bit of support.
Mary: I am Mary,
her sister. She is a marvel. I have loved her as long as I can
remember. My earliest memories include my sister working in the
kitchen. She is the best baker in the province. All my days I have
wished that I could bring forth such delicacies as she produces from
the kitchen. I remember trying hard to follow her lead, use her
recipes, but she it was too complex for me. It was a pinch of this
or was it two pinches, a slice of that, a handful of this…well you
see. Or maybe you do not see the shadow in which I have walked. My
best time is in prayer and devotion. I should have been a rabbi! It
is there, in thought and feelings, that my best loaves are baked. I
love her with all my heart. I just wish she could find a place for
me. Could I just be valued for what I am?
Martha: Since I
am older the house was in my name. My responsibility extended to be
hostess to all visitors. My house was never neglected, nor was my
duty to be the provider of plenty. Here was food. Here was refuge.
No one left my door without feeling properly welcomed. The
responsibility was mine, and, of course, my little sister's
Mary:
You see? I am the little sister, who cannot do things right. And
that is the way we lived, all the days, through the changing of
seasons, day and night. It was always the same, and would always be.
Nothing would ever change! At least, that is what I thought until
He came into our lives.
Martha:
Fine thanks I get. I spend all day, from the last light of the
stars until the moon brightens on the horizon, baking, cleaning,
cooking. And what thanks do I get? Precious little!
Mary:
It was too much. My breath froze. I could not move. He sat in
front of me and asked me what I thought about the reign of God.
Could I be hearing things? I had to ask him to repeat himself,
twice. His laughter thawed my breath and my fears and something of
the frozen dreams of all the years thawed in that moment. His smile,
his genuine questions, his hearty laughter, his clear grasp of truth
enthralled me, stirred the warmth of faith in me, and I knew I would
follow Him all the remaining days. Even Martha warmed a bit when he
told her that her bread reminded him of his own mother's loaves --
full, sweet, and baked with loving hands.
Martha:
My little sister is right. That was a night of change. I found
some depth in Mary that I had simply overlooked in my busy days. I
shall have to ask her about life, and listen. And maybe she will
even learn about bread someday.
SYROPHENICIAN
WOMAN (4) Matthew 15:21-28
I am not a
gentle woman. The days that have gone over my head were spent in the
coasts of Tyre and Sidon. My hands are rough and callused, and I
have suffered. But the years were nothing at all compared to the
tears and pain I have felt within me as I have watched my young
daughter die. It is bad enough for me to suffer. I have survived.
I am strong. She is just a child. Life should be better for her.
Her smile is like sunrise after a darkened night. Her laughter lifts
hearts--all those around her, and mine. Yes, mine! My old heart, it
must be leathered and dry from the aches and pains of days and years,
is softened and I feel alive when she laughs. No more. She is
dying. And here comes that Jew. They told me to take her to him.
To a Jew? We have had good and bad with them. They liked our cedars
for their holy places. They like our goods and wares brought in by
the sailors. We even are good enough to mint the coins they use in
their great temple; but they will not accept us. We will not be
permitted to marry them, to live near them, and we cannot step an
inch within their sacred space. It is for them, not us. We are the
dogs under their tables. Why should I bother, he is just another
Jew. I must do it. For her.
He looks softer
than I had imagined. He does not sneer or raise his nose and rub it
with him thumb. So, I must be careful. He could be dangerous.
He looks at me
and draws me near. "The kingdom is for the Jews," he says.
"The children's bread should not be given to dogs."
"Has he
read my thoughts? Does he know that I said just that?"
I face him and
stare into his eyes. I feel like he is looking into my soul. A
wrinkle appeared between my eyebrows. It always does that when I am
afraid. Of what? He wants me to say something. I must speak. He
knows. He knows.
"Yes, Lord,
but even the dogs eat the crumbs under the table."
He laughs. He
laughs. He cannot be a Pharisee. He catches my fear in his glance
and says that I have great faith. Me? Faith? I have endured the
years and I have am stronger than rock, but faith? Who is this? I
look back into his eyes. He sees me, all of me, the sorrows, the
scars, the tears. I even think that he sees the girl I used to be.
I was so young and foolish, filled with silly dreams of what I would
be and do. He looks down at my sick daughter and back at me. That
is when it happened. She stirs, she opens her eyes. She looks at me
and smiles. She is well. O God, she has been healed by his glance.
That was many
days ago. Waters flow from my eyes when I remember. My heart
softens. I breathe deeper. I wonder what I may still do with my
life. Two women were healed the day that Jesus came into our foreign
land.
WOMAN CAUGHT IN
ADULTRY (5) John 8:3-11
How could it have
happened! We were so careful. We timed our meetings with a
precision that could not have failed. It should not have failed. We
deserved the little precious moments we had. It was an accident that
we met. We collided in the market, upsetting armloads of food, and
arms loaded with emptiness. He helped my home with my purchases,
taking the burden from my twisted foot. He stayed awhile. Was that
wrong? How could it be wrong? It filled a terrible loneliness in our
hearts? We found each other, again and again. Then we were found.
They burst in,
breaking doors, breaking pottery, and breaking hearts. They seized
us and dragged us outside, and there, in the light of day they
announced our sins and our crime for the entire world to hear. I was
terrified and I was furious. But I did not have time to act on my
feelings, for they caught us and carried us to the temple and threw
me down in the dirt. I was later to learn that the crafty ones had
found a way to use our times together for their own uses. They
wanted to be rid of the one before whom they threw me. But at the
moment I could only look at him with fear and fury in my eyes. What
would this man do? Would I be a part of his political strategy?
Would he denounce me in front of God and people? Would he throw the
first stone? His gaze held mine. I saw something in those depths.
What was it? What could call me from my fear and my guilt? Yes, we
were guilty. I saw sorrow in his eyes. It was like I had seen
before in the eyes of my father, who had played games with me as a
child and sang songs to me as he tucked me in for the night. It was
his eyes. I could see the hope and remember his dream for me: to be
a woman of which he would be proud. A spasm of sorrow caught in my
throat and I missed seeing him kneel down. When my eyes cleared
enough, he was writing, writing names in the sand. Whose names were
they? Were they the names of those standing behind me, holding
stones? I do not know to this day. I only know that I saw my name
there, and his. He said nothing, but he spoke to the mob behind me
and told them that God knew all our names and all our lives and if
they were to kill this woman, then the one whose life is pure should
have the task of throwing the first stone. Their lives had been
written before them in the sand. They knew that they were like
writings in the sand, soon fading from the light of mortal day, and
then there would be the Eternal judgment. They left--fleeing as ones
that sought cleansing for their sins. He only said one thing that
mattered. He said that I must give up my sin and start again on the
life I was meant to lead. O yes, there was the other thing. He said
he did not condemn me. It was enough to start me on a journey I
should have always been on.
MARY THE MOTHER
OF JESUS John 19:25-27
I watched him
die. How could he die? Why didn't he listen? He had this cause to
follow. He marched into danger like a prophet of old, heedless,
caught up by a great dream. Now he is dying, slowly, achingly. He
was my baby. I carried, cradled, and fed him. He was my child. I
watched him take his first steps -- toddling shakily to the
outstretched arms of my Joseph. Oh, now they both will be gone. "A
sword will pierce your heart," old Simeon had said, and now it
did so. My heart was pierced each time he cried out from the cross.
"I thirst." "Forgive them." "Why have you
forsaken me?" Forsaken! I am the one who is forsaken! Wait!
John is coming to me. He wants me. He wants to see me. I will
never forget how he did not forget. In the middle of the horrific
pain of the cross he remembered me, his Mother. Now I reflect that
it was no dream he followed. It was a deeper reality than any of us
could see. We did not understand. Now we have seen it through, or
begun. Now we have seen beyond the pain and tears. We have
journeyed through the darkness and found ourselves in sunlight
bursting forth tomb, filling a garden, filling our hearts. The
darkness of that terrible hour just reminds us of that light. Thank
you, my Son, for loving me beyond my fears and giving me a certainty
that I cannot lose. Thank you, Jesus.
MARY MAGDALENE
Narrator: The sudden change of light
caused the air to stir, a breeze to ripple the olive leaves. From
the faintest glow on the hem of the sky sight-filling light came as a
soundless, weightless flood--the dawn came rushing in, filling all
the dark spaces. She shuddered slightly, pulling her shawl closer.
It was still early spring, though her heart was locked, lost in
winter darkness. A songbird caught the rising light and translated
it into song. One lone songbird sang to the dawn. Mary did not hear
the notes. She had no room for music or light or joy. She had
descended back into the dark.
Mary: How long did I wander in that
dark wilderness? Was it forty years, like our ancestor’s sorry
trek in the desert? It seemed endless. And ever-during dark! They
owned me. First one would pull me and then another would seize me
and tug me in another direction. Which way? I could not tell. It
was night in all directions. Wouldn’t one have been enough to
bear? But seven powers of darkness contended over me, each one
seeking to suck me into a deeper night. My family could not reach
me. No friends could bear my pain. I saw no one. Heard no
one…until a word broke through that gloom. “Mary.” I
shuddered, fearing the clarity. It was my old name. “Mary.” It
came again. I leaned toward it, listening for more. “Mary, come
out of the darkness.” I edged toward that sound and as the night
fades before the sun I found myself in growing light. The first
thing I saw clearly was his face. It was light, the sun breaking
through after a long night of terrible storms. “Mary.” I ran to
the light. Tears? There were none left. None needed. I knew my
name. I could see and hear. He had called me. I stood in light.
But now that light is gone, snuffed out by the thorns, the nails, the
cross, the dark powers…lifeless and sealed in a tomb.
Why am I here? I am here to remember
what it was like. For awhile I lived in the radiance of His
presence.
Narrator: Silence
gathered around her. In the dawn of that first day of the week, Mary
Magdalene waited for darkness to seize her. Not that day or any day!
The voice that had called her from the possession of darkness into
the everlasting light spoke again. She recognized it immediately.
Her eyes opened and through her tears she beheld the Living One,
calling to her again. “Mary! Mary! Come back into the light.”
On that resurrection morning she knew that it would always be her
home.
Herod – reflections near the
cross
“I chose a cross,” will be his
epitaph. He hasn’t got a chance, like a feather in a sandstorm.
Well, I tried. He could have found a real friend in the Tetrarch.
What the two of us could have done! But he wouldn’t budge from his
death wish. Too bad! I could have used a bit of help from someone
close to the little people, and who walks on the water of Galilee.
The crafty Roman sent him to me. That was to let the hardtack Jews
know that there was more than one authority they had to worry about.
If he could have gotten the Romans to let me deal with the Sanhedrin!
I know their ways. I am one of them – at least part of me! (His
laughter echoes through his chambers.) They wouldn’t sneer at my
rule by refusing to come into my presence – at least not for long
they wouldn’t. If they mess with me I will remind them of the
Baptist. Maybe show them the shrunken head. A little blood would
tame them soon enough. But it is over now, except for the show on
the hill, a bloody end to a fractious episode, this season’s top
entertainment. Tough for him! Will they remember him? (More
laughter!) His influence will last about as long as a cry in the
desert. Let the birds pick his bones from his cross. His sorrow is
his destiny. Bring me the next entertainer!
Pilate’s reflections --
How can that High Priest live with
himself? What a contradiction in the flesh! He comes before the
Governor with a mob, demanding this, insisting that, and even as he
looks me in the eye he knows the truth. I own him. He wants his
luxurious apartments and the sweets that come through my own
largesse. He stays in his lofty perch because I let him. He’s the
holy leader! A chosen one! If his cobbled together life is the best
this hypocritical religion can do then I’ll be glad to be rid of
it. Religion? It’s all power and position. They hated that I
took their money, the money they made unusable, but they drink the
water we brought in. They disrespect Lord Tiberius, and me, when
they refused his images on the standards, and his name on the golden
shields. Now they persecute this intense young man whom the people
regard as a savior. He could be a threat to them. “Run out the
hated Romans!” Others have aroused Rome’s wrath by peasant
uprising. Does he really want to rule this miserable land? They
want him tried and killed in the Roman way. They demand it in the
name of serving Caesar. One man’s death to save their position is
what they’re after. It is good that we withhold from them the power
to assassinate. What a quarrelsome lot. Well let them have their
death, the blood is on their hands. I’ve heard that old Epiphanes
burned a pig on their high altar. They were furious. It was an
abomination, but it is their image! They are desert pigs, let them
grub their way back to the sties from which they came. I will be
glad to escape this hole in the earth and get back to the sea, and
someday, someday, back to civilization.
