(e)mergent Voyageurs

[Our summer program is well underway and things are going really well.  Kim approached me a few weeks ago to write a monologue for part of the program.  The following is what I wrote.  I was under some requirements and limitations, but I think it turned out nonetheless.  It is read with a collection of images playing in the background, as well as some sound effects.  I hope you enjoy]

Centurion:

This is a land forsaken by the god’s.  A dry and barren backwater of the Empire inhabited by a backwards and arrogant people whose weak minds can only conceive of one god.  To be stationed here is an insult upon my name and my family’s name.  Only the dregs of our soldiers are sent here.  I am a captain of centurions, what have I done to be so dishonoured?

And now I oversee the escort this Jewish prisoner around.  He seems harmless enough, but he is but a petty dissident, a tool for the local religious leaders to play at their politics with Governor Pontius Pilate.   So we must make a good show of it, keeping the natives appeased.  What a waste of my skills and service.

This prisoner- this… Jesus- hardly seems to warrant such an escort.  I heard the story of when they captured him, betrayed by one of his own men.

When Judas, who had betrayed him, saw that Jesus was condemned, he was seized with remorse and returned the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and the elders. “I have sinned,” he said, “for I have betrayed innocent blood.”  “What is that to us?” they replied. “That’s your responsibility.” So Judas threw the money into the temple and left. Then he went away and hanged himself.

He didn’t even put up a fight, holding back his men as well.  One of the temple soldiers screamed like a madman when one them lunged clumsily at his head with a crude sword.  Jesus, I am told, actually went to him to make sure he was alright- what weakness.  The sword missed him entirely, though the man swears his ear had been severed.  Covering up for his cowardice, no doubt.  That is what separates us from these so called soldiers.

He stands before Pilate now, being questioned for his crimes.  He has already been judged by his own religious leaders, declaring him a blasphemer, a so called crime our courts could care less about.  But they seem determined to have this man executed, so they cast their before the Governor, claiming he called himself the King of the Jews.  The fool confirmed it with his own mouth.  Still, it hardly seems a crime worthy of crucifixion.

Early in the morning, all the chief priests and the elders of the people came to the decision to put Jesus to death. They bound him, led him away and handed him over to Pilate the governor.

“Do you refuse to speak to me?” Pilate said. “Don’t you realize I have power either to free you or to crucify you?”

Jesus answered, “You would have no power over me if it were not given to you from above. Therefore the one who handed me over to you is guilty of a greater sin.”

It seems Pilate shares that judgment.  He washes his hands of the matter, declaring he would not have this mans blood upon him.  The crowd clamoured that his blood could be upon them and their children, so hungry of judgment they are.  They even called for the release of a murderous dissident to be released instead of this harmless, if misguided teacher.  Fools.  So we are to scourge him.  Perhaps of a taste of Roman strength might quench their blood-thirst.

When Pilate saw that he was getting nowhere, but that instead an uproar was starting, he took water and washed his hands in front of the crowd. “I am innocent of this man’s blood,” he said. “It is your responsibility!”

All the people answered, “His blood is on us and on our children!”

I am glad I am not the one to use that whip.  It is bad enough that I must watch.  As a seasoned soldier I have seen much brutality, but scourging always turns my stomach.  They strike him again and again.  The sharps of the cords tear at his flesh.  He will be lucky to survive this torment.  The smell of blood is heavy.

The other soldiers are making good sport of this wretched man.  They mock his pitiful claims at kingship a scarlet robe on his torn back, beating a crude crown of thorns into his head.  I almost pity the man.  I would be happy to be done with this whole business.  Blindfolded, they beat him, calling for him to name his attackers.  They expect no answer, nor does he give one.

A crowd has grown along the streets, as there always is before a crucifixion.  This Jesus is trying to carry his cross up the steep streets to Golgotha, but he is too weak.  I must chose a local to help him.  The men in the crowd shrink back under my gaze, knowing what I am looking for.  Not wanting to anger the locals needlessly, I spot a foreigner, a Cyrene by the look of him, and drag him forward.  Reluctantly, he takes up the heavy timber.

As they were going out, they met a man from Cyrene, named Simon, and they forced him to carry the cross.  They came to a place called Golgotha (which means “the place of the skull”).  There they offered Jesus wine to drink, mixed with gall; but after tasting it, he refused to drink it.  When they had crucified him, they divided up his clothes by casting lots.  And sitting down, they kept watch over him there.

I have rarely seen such anger and cruelty from the crowds.  Or perhaps it is because this strong, but gentle man seemed not to deserve such hatred.  Whatever the reason, the pain in his eyes has stirred something in me.  I try to offer him the vinegar and gall to ease his pain, but he refuses, not with the stubborn defiance so many display in these last moments of life.  Rather, he seems to accept his fate with a determination.  His eyes meet mine for but a moment, filled with- what is this?!?- compassion?  Who is this man?  I am confused, disoriented.

The spikes and mallet are brought to, as they wait for me to decide who will nail his hands and feet the cross.  I know which men would excel, but the dark cruelty in their eyes disgusts me.  I will do it myself.  Better me than some of this men, whose lives seem determined to inflict pain for their own pleasure.  And so, his writhing body pinned by the others, I steadily pound the nails through his flesh, piercing his wrists, then his feet.  Blood streams down my hands and his agony wracks his broken body.

And then this Jesus is lift up for all see watch him die in his nakedness and shame.  A cruel sign has been nailed above his head, declaring him “King of the Jews”.  The religious leaders roared their anger at this blasphemy.  Then, looking to the heavens, he spoke the words that tore through me like the blade of my gladius:

“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing”

The crowds mock Jesus, spurred on my the religious leaders who have come to gloat.  Petty politicians, the lot.  Yet none of this seems to bother the teacher on the cross.  He has spoken words of comfort to those few friends and followers who have come to him.  He even comforted one of the other criminals who was being crucified beside him.  What kind of man is this, to give so much to others in the midst of agonizing last moments on earth?

A foreboding darkness has fallen, unsettling everyone.  Jesus’ pain must be worsening now.  He has to be getting weaker.  He cried out something moments ago, but I did not understand the words.  Whatever he said, it sent a stir through the quieting crowds.  Again, I tried to offer him the vinegar for the pain, but the crowd barked in protest.  I am sure my mean mock me for my kindness.  They can be damned!  This is not right.

From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land. 46 About three in the afternoon Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” (which means “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”). When some of those standing there heard this, they said, “He’s calling Elijah.”  Immediately one of them ran and got a sponge. He filled it with wine vinegar, put it on a staff, and offered it to Jesus to drink. The rest said, “Now leave him alone. Let’s see if Elijah comes to save him.”

Suddenly the sky darkened even more, as if it were night.  Something was happening, something beyond reason.  This was no mere man.  I gazed up at Jesus and I clearly heard his words as life began to final slip away from him:

“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit”

And with that, a rattling shudder went through Jesus’ body, a wheeze of breathe escaping his lips.  And then… he was dead.

I could not hold back.  Despite the shock and dismay of my men, I cried out to the God of the this nam Jesus.

“Surely, this was a good and innocent man!”

The crowd seemed to sense the same deep, dark truth that had burst from within me.  Heads down, voices silenced, they crept away, one by one, until only a few were left behind.  Word was sent that the body was to be released to a wealthy patron of this dead rabbi.  Against custom and to the distaste of my men, I ordered them to help remove the body and carry to the prepared tomb.  I followed, wanting only to be near this man, this person who was so much more.

Jesus said, “It is finished.” With that, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.