Easter Sunday

Woman

Holy Week Monologues

This is a series of monologues that take us through the final week of Jesus life. The stories are told in the voices of women who were there. As we move from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday these stories invite us to hear anew the ancient words and see through a new lens.

Easter Sunday is the final in the seven part series.

Easter Sunday

My name is Mary. Most of you know me as the mother of Jesus. The story that I tell you is Jesus’ story. But it is also mine and it is yours. It began 33, 34, years ago when I discovered that I was pregnant. I remember it well and the feelings of uncertainty. As I wandered in the fields with only my thoughts, trying to figure out what I would do, I felt on the wind the voice of Divine. I knew that everything would be okay somehow. Then when my child was born the voice of Divine on the breeze was like angels singing, announcing to the world his birth. This is a story of hope and promise, joy and sorrow, oppression and freedom, life, death and life beyond death.

This past week has been particularly difficult as we walked the road that would lead to his death. As a mother I stood beside him and I was truly proud of him. But my heart ached as I watched him push the boundaries. His convictions ran deep and he was committed to the Divine, determined to touch the world in such a way that it would be transformed. He brought light and love and opened doors of possibility, calling all earth’s children to a new way of life. Such actions, such words, however, brought fear. Fear of change and difference. People would need to relinquish power and position and stand side by side to make his dream reality. It was more than some could take. So tempers flared. In an effort to maintain the status quo the crowds did the unthinkable. He was arrested, tried and convicted in a matter of hours. Crucifixion! The mobs cried and it was so.

I watched as my son was beaten then made to carry his cross through the streets to Calvary. On that hill, just outside the town, they nailed his hands and his feet and pierced his side believing that this would be the end.

When Joseph of Arimathea took him from the cross and laid him in the tomb I followed behind and watched as the stone was put in place. In the hours since then I have cried and screamed and poured out my heart wondering why! Why would the crowds turn on him, after he had touched so many of their lives? Why would people think that killing someone was the right way to deal with a different voice? The last three years gone up in smoke and for what? I could not contain my anguish!

This morning, with several of my sisters, we walked again to the tomb. It was dark when we left and just as we arrived the sun was rising. That is when it happened!! As the darkness began to disappear in the light of a new day, what it revealed was amazing! The stone had been rolled away and the tomb was empty. At first we thought that someone had come in the night and stolen his body and again I cried out to the Divine. Then, just as it had happened 34 years ago, I could feel the spirit moving and on the breath of the wind came a message of hope and promise and new life.

“He is not here!! He is Risen!”

And I knew deep in my soul that his dream did not die, this was not the end, for death cannot contain the spirit!

© Rev. Valerie Peyton Kingsbury


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