- Dec 18, 2004
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Here is a monologue I perform yearly the Sunday before Easter....Even after memorizing and performing each year I cry as I stand on that stage enacting these events...I thought I'd share, cause for some reason even the "brushing up of the memory" is bringing me to tears...
This piece is based on John 19:25-20:9
In my dreams I still see Him hanging there. I stand as I did that day, paralyzed with fear and anguish. My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth, and my dry eyes stare at the unimaginable.
The figure on teh center cross grunts through gritted teeth. his face twists in agony as His leg muscles push Him slowly, oh so slowly, to a fully extended position. His breath is expelled in a groan.
I stand, staring as if turned to stone. I cannot speak, I cannot weep. I am already dead inside. When He breathes His last, I shall breathe my last and die in the dust at His feet. He is my hope, my life; He is my Messiah. I am His mother, but He is more to me than a son.
"Mother, Mother, it's only a dream." I hear the voice and feel the gentle touch. But the eyes that search my face are not the eyes of Jesus. It is John, my adopted son and beloved friend of Jesus.
"John, I'm sorry. I've wakened you again. I'm just a foolish old woman with nightmares. Forgive me."
He does not go back to bed, but lights a lamp and returns to my side.
"You are not being foolish. I was there, too, that day." He takes my hand and says, "The deceiver wants you to believe it was the end, but, Mother, you know it was not."
"Tell me again, John. Tell me about Sunday morning."
How many times have we gone through this ritual? The dreams come less frequently now, but John is so patient. Uncomplaining, he is always the same. First he brings the lamp and then we share together the hope, teh joy, and the comfort that began on Sunday morning.
We are an unlikely pair, John and I. I have four living sons, each of them a fine, upright man with a prosperous business and family. And my daughters have all grown to be such lovely women. I could have found a home with any of them. John, too, has a family, good parents and a loving brother.
Yet, on that day, as my Jesus hung dying, through the strain of His suffering, He said to me, "Dear woman, here is your son." Then turning His yees to John, He said, "Here is your mother." I'll never forget the sound of His voice as He spoke to my shattered soul. Even as my son was dying, He gave me permission to go on living. Jesus released me from parenting Him and showed me who He really is: God's Son.
Purity and Justice, the Son of the Eternal Almighty God hung on a Roman cross for the sins of all generations to come. And yet -- He loved me!
He loved John. He knew that the long night of mourning would break our spirits. So He gave us each other for comfort and strength. Who but John could drive away the nightmares?
"Tell me again about Sunday morning," I say when troubles press in on us. I can see his face, bathed in the light of the oil lamp, excitement and wonder as he tells of the race to the tomb. He tells of the stone, that massive stone, that was rolled away and the shroud that lay empty.
"He wasn't there! He arose -- just as He said He would! He went ahead of us to Galilee, where we saw Him! He's alive! He will live forever! And, Mother, He's coming back -- for you, for me, for all who will call on His name in faith."
The pain of that cross was a deadly pain. I would not have survived it without John. But the hoy that has come from that Sunday morning is so glorious, it is beyond all I could imagine.
So...tell me again, John, about Sunday morning.
This piece is based on John 19:25-20:9
In my dreams I still see Him hanging there. I stand as I did that day, paralyzed with fear and anguish. My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth, and my dry eyes stare at the unimaginable.
The figure on teh center cross grunts through gritted teeth. his face twists in agony as His leg muscles push Him slowly, oh so slowly, to a fully extended position. His breath is expelled in a groan.
I stand, staring as if turned to stone. I cannot speak, I cannot weep. I am already dead inside. When He breathes His last, I shall breathe my last and die in the dust at His feet. He is my hope, my life; He is my Messiah. I am His mother, but He is more to me than a son.
"Mother, Mother, it's only a dream." I hear the voice and feel the gentle touch. But the eyes that search my face are not the eyes of Jesus. It is John, my adopted son and beloved friend of Jesus.
"John, I'm sorry. I've wakened you again. I'm just a foolish old woman with nightmares. Forgive me."
He does not go back to bed, but lights a lamp and returns to my side.
"You are not being foolish. I was there, too, that day." He takes my hand and says, "The deceiver wants you to believe it was the end, but, Mother, you know it was not."
"Tell me again, John. Tell me about Sunday morning."
How many times have we gone through this ritual? The dreams come less frequently now, but John is so patient. Uncomplaining, he is always the same. First he brings the lamp and then we share together the hope, teh joy, and the comfort that began on Sunday morning.
We are an unlikely pair, John and I. I have four living sons, each of them a fine, upright man with a prosperous business and family. And my daughters have all grown to be such lovely women. I could have found a home with any of them. John, too, has a family, good parents and a loving brother.
Yet, on that day, as my Jesus hung dying, through the strain of His suffering, He said to me, "Dear woman, here is your son." Then turning His yees to John, He said, "Here is your mother." I'll never forget the sound of His voice as He spoke to my shattered soul. Even as my son was dying, He gave me permission to go on living. Jesus released me from parenting Him and showed me who He really is: God's Son.
Purity and Justice, the Son of the Eternal Almighty God hung on a Roman cross for the sins of all generations to come. And yet -- He loved me!
He loved John. He knew that the long night of mourning would break our spirits. So He gave us each other for comfort and strength. Who but John could drive away the nightmares?
"Tell me again about Sunday morning," I say when troubles press in on us. I can see his face, bathed in the light of the oil lamp, excitement and wonder as he tells of the race to the tomb. He tells of the stone, that massive stone, that was rolled away and the shroud that lay empty.
"He wasn't there! He arose -- just as He said He would! He went ahead of us to Galilee, where we saw Him! He's alive! He will live forever! And, Mother, He's coming back -- for you, for me, for all who will call on His name in faith."
The pain of that cross was a deadly pain. I would not have survived it without John. But the hoy that has come from that Sunday morning is so glorious, it is beyond all I could imagine.
So...tell me again, John, about Sunday morning.