Friday, April 04, 2003

the apostle: a monologue

This is a monologue I wrote two years ago for the Good Friday service at my church. It may not be reprinted, reposted, forwarded or performed without my express permission.

"The Apostle"

Don’t look at me like that.

The first time I met the Lord, he couldn’t have been more than 10 years old. I really don’t remember too much about it. I remember my family and I were in Jerusalem for the Passover feast, and we happened to bump into this family from Nazareth with a boy about the same age as me.

He was a little different even then, you could tell. He had a certain
mischievous look in his eyes — the kind that doesn’t do anything that’s actually wrong and that you can’t punish him for but it still makes you nervous anyway. We hit it right off, if for no other reason than we were the same age and both awed by the sites of the Holy City.

We saw each other a few more times as the years went by, and even though we got older, we still looked for each other around the Passover when we were in the city. By the time we were adults, Jesus had adopted a kind of intense air. Not brooding so much, but when you looked into his eyes, it was like looking at the sea and knowing there were such deep mysteries hidden within.

His eyes ... Don’t look me like that.

We were thirty when it all came together. I met him after he had been out in the desert with John the Baptist. I didn’t realize at the time that they were cousins, but I found it out later. It wasn’t long after that that he asked me to be one of his disciples. You can imagine how I felt. It was like — well, it was like I’d just been named one of the Twelve Apostles.

And let me tell you, it was a ride I will never forget as long as I live. When he spoke, everyone listened. Crowds. Demons. The waves. Even the priests and teachers of the law.

Then there were miracles. Everywhere we went, people came to him with
diseases, with afflicted children, and he healed them. Did you know that one time when were in Bethany he actually raised an old friend of his from the dead? There was no doubting who he was. He was the messiah, the very son of God himself, and I was left speechless that he actually would associate with me.

Please don’t look at me that way. It’s bad enough already.

You see, I was there with him from the very beginning. The others all knew him and loved him, but I could tell they couldn’t see what I saw happening. Things were getting out of control. When we started out, there was no doubt that Jesus was in control of things. People came to him for a miracle, and he gave them that miracle, and then they told others, and more people came, and Jesus gave them their miracles too, and they kept coming and taking, and Jesus kept right on giving, no matter how exhausted he was.

It all started to come clear to me a little over a week ago. Jesus had been hinting that there was trouble ahead. He was still talking about the kingdom of God, but something had changed. He started talking about being executed, and Peter — God bless him — Peter got upset with him. Jesus rebuked him, and I think that’s when I realized where we were headed.

It was absolutely clear to me just after we entered Jerusalem, and I knew it was clear to Jesus too. He kept looking at me with those eyes of his — eyes that were warm, but somehow sad — and I knew what he was thinking. It had gone too far. In all their hosannas and shouts of "Son of David, save us!" the crowd had changed. He had stopped leading them, and they hard started to drive him.

We had come too far, too fast, and things were spiraling out of control. I remember the last time that nearly happened, when hundreds of people left him at a time because of something he had said. His eyes had been filled with pain and confusion, and I knew we were headed toward that again, only worse.

Do you know what it’s like to love someone and see them get eaten away, piece by piece? It’s horrible. You see them in pain, you hear them crying out for release, and in the end, there’s nothing left of their glory or majesty. They’re empty shells, and that’s all that people remember of them.

I had to do what I did. I love him too much to let people remember him as anything but what he was this past week. A king, triumphantly riding his way into town. A prophet, angrily facing down the hypocrite shepherds who fatten themselves on their flock. A priest — the only real priest I’ve ever known — who cares for people and brings them closer to God.

Stop looking at me that way. I don’t want your pity, and I don’t need your horror. I did it because I love him. He knew it at the seder last night, and when I came to him early this morning, I saw it in his eyes that he was ready … his eyes ...

(choked laugh)

Oh God ... I've betrayed divinity....

[music]
[hanging]

Copyright © 2001 David Learn

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