Kneeling Before Him
Drama
Bit Players In The Big Play
Pamela J. Tinnin
A neighbor woman and good friend of Mary and Martha tells how each chose their own way to honor Jesus.
Not one word about Mary -- I won't hear it. She is as dear to me as a sister; we were in and out of each other's houses from our first steps. Oh, I know she spent a year's wages on nard and then used it all on the Nazarene's feet. I was there -- I heard the gasp of the elders when she removed her veil, uncoiled her hair, hair that gleamed like copper in the flickering light of the oil lamps, heavy hair like streaks of fire that fell down her back almost to the floor. If there be fault in Mary, it may be that she's always been a bit vain about her hair -- but then, what did she do but kneel before him and taking her hair, wipe his feet with it -- think of it. Wiped his feet with her beautiful hair.
Martha was white with embarrassment when she turned from making supper, her fingers sticky with dates, to see her sister there on the floor. Martha tries so hard to temper Mary's flightiness, but she's always rushing off, doing something that raises the neighbors' eyebrows, starts them whispering. Uncovering her hair, and touching a man's feet ... and certainly no kin to their family, and from all accounts, a troublemaker.
That's when the sharp-faced man sneered and spoke loud enough for all to hear, the man whose eyes are always looking this way and that, like an animal backed into a corner. They call him Judas. Some say he's a thief, and maybe worse, but I'm not one to gossip. His words were hard, accusing Mary of waste, of taking from the poor. But the man, Jesus, said the strangest thing: "Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me."
She loves him -- that's obvious. At first I thought it was the love for a husband, but watching her that night, it's not like that at all. Many follow him these days, listening to his teaching; a few even whisper he's the Messiah. With her, it's different, I think -- after all, he brought her brother back from the dead. When Mary looked up at him there was something in her eyes, like I've seen only once, on the face of an old holy man who was looking to the heavens, his hands raised in prayer.
There is talk that the priests want to rid themselves of him. They think he's dangerous. Old Hannah told me that the fortune-teller in the square, the one with the withered arm, has foretold the Nazarene's death, that he'll never leave Jerusalem alive -- but then that one says many things that never come to pass.
No, matter, I won't listen to bad talk about Mary. When I lost baby Ethan last year, she was the one who stayed with me; she fed me spoonful by spoonful; she bought balm and rubbed it on my temples; she even sang for me when I couldn't sleep. Truth be told, she kept me from going mad.
I loved him so, my firstborn.... If I'd known I'd only have him for so short a time, not even two years, I would have held each moment like a rare jewel. I would have marked each day by putting to memory each precious thing. The day he smiled and I saw the white of a tooth. The way his hair curled with sweat when he slept in the heat of the day. His giggle when I scooped river water over his head and it ran down his fat little arms. My mother and the other old women tell me I'm young, I can have another ... but I would give any amount to have just one more day with him, 300 denarii, 600 ... anything.
Life goes by day by day, and the hours are filled with the sameness of things. Each day I'd rise in the morning, eat the last night's leftover bread and a fig, sweep out our room, beat the rugs against the wall, go to the well and return with the heavy water jar on one hip, the baby on the other. How could I know how quickly it could all change? I didn't see that in one moment, in the time it takes for one breath, what you love most can be torn from you, leaving your arms and your heart empty.
If we knew that, if we could keep it in our minds every morning when we wake, remind ourselves of it each night when we lay down to sleep, would we live our lives differently? Would we always speak with kindness? Would we sit outside together in the evening and watch the disappearing sun fill the sky with colors? Would we kiss our babies more? I don't know -- I'm just a peasant girl with no learning, and certainly small wisdom.
Maybe if I'd been a better mother, a better wife ... maybe if we'd sacrificed a calf instead of that tiny goat kid ... maybe the baby would be sleeping now in the basket that still sits in the corner. Even yet, there is a weight pressing my heart into stone.
But this Jesus ... he says it doesn't have to be that way. Jesus says that love is stronger than death. That we will never be parted from the ones we love. He says that God loves us and cares for us, suffers with us when we think we cannot take one more thing, gives life where there is death. Mary told me that all those laws the priests quote again and again aren't nearly as important as trying to live every day with love. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Just to love. Jesus says God doesn't want sacrifices -- goat kids or lambs. All God wants is our hearts.
I don't understand it all -- I lay awake late last night, the light from the stars shining through the shutters, and I thought about everything that's happened. What he teaches is so different from what the priests at the temple say. Mary plans to follow him to Jerusalem; she's going to walk with him when he enters the gates. And, oh, it will be grand, she says. Some say he's going to declare himself a king. Some say he'll throw the Romans out of all Judea. There is much talk of rebellion.
But the other night in Bethany, there was no talk of kings, or battles, or conquering the world. He came in, some of his disciples, too, and just sat there, stretching his dusty feet out before him. I could tell he was tired, the skin shadowed under his eyes, the way he slumped on the stool. Mary came in and went right to him. Kneeling, she undid his sandals, and placed them to the side. Then the rich fragrance of nard filled the room.
I watched Mary rub the soreness from his feet, Martha clucking her tongue about the waste. Slowly Mary untwined the thick braid -- her hair must have felt like fine silk against his calloused skin. He reached out and touched her shoulder, mumbling his thanks, and something else, too, so soft I couldn't make out the words, something about peace. Then Mary closed her eyes and bowed her head. For a moment, I thought she was weeping. It was still in the room, and felt so strange, like we were in a great temple, with God right there with us.
Then there was the sound of laughter from the street. Mary stood, and went to help Martha, and we all went back to what we were doing.
My husband Elias is angry, threatening to beat me, though he never would. He tells me this is no business for a good Jew, much less a woman, to get all worked up about -- that I should stop asking questions and let things lie. Elias is older, and he knows best. He says that this man from Nazareth is just one more trickster like all the others who perform magic for money. That all this
talk of love is foolish, nothing more than looking for an easy way. Disobeying the laws will only lead to trouble, he says, and I suppose he's right.
But, Jesus' words ... I can't get them out of my mind.
Well, I have to work to do -- can't be wasting all day here by the well.
You know, Elias is wrong about one thing. Love is never easy. Sometimes it costs everything ... everything. And the man from Nazareth knows it -- I can tell by the sadness in his eyes.
The sky's getting dark; I'd better get home before it rains.
A neighbor woman and good friend of Mary and Martha tells how each chose their own way to honor Jesus.
Not one word about Mary -- I won't hear it. She is as dear to me as a sister; we were in and out of each other's houses from our first steps. Oh, I know she spent a year's wages on nard and then used it all on the Nazarene's feet. I was there -- I heard the gasp of the elders when she removed her veil, uncoiled her hair, hair that gleamed like copper in the flickering light of the oil lamps, heavy hair like streaks of fire that fell down her back almost to the floor. If there be fault in Mary, it may be that she's always been a bit vain about her hair -- but then, what did she do but kneel before him and taking her hair, wipe his feet with it -- think of it. Wiped his feet with her beautiful hair.
Martha was white with embarrassment when she turned from making supper, her fingers sticky with dates, to see her sister there on the floor. Martha tries so hard to temper Mary's flightiness, but she's always rushing off, doing something that raises the neighbors' eyebrows, starts them whispering. Uncovering her hair, and touching a man's feet ... and certainly no kin to their family, and from all accounts, a troublemaker.
That's when the sharp-faced man sneered and spoke loud enough for all to hear, the man whose eyes are always looking this way and that, like an animal backed into a corner. They call him Judas. Some say he's a thief, and maybe worse, but I'm not one to gossip. His words were hard, accusing Mary of waste, of taking from the poor. But the man, Jesus, said the strangest thing: "Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me."
She loves him -- that's obvious. At first I thought it was the love for a husband, but watching her that night, it's not like that at all. Many follow him these days, listening to his teaching; a few even whisper he's the Messiah. With her, it's different, I think -- after all, he brought her brother back from the dead. When Mary looked up at him there was something in her eyes, like I've seen only once, on the face of an old holy man who was looking to the heavens, his hands raised in prayer.
There is talk that the priests want to rid themselves of him. They think he's dangerous. Old Hannah told me that the fortune-teller in the square, the one with the withered arm, has foretold the Nazarene's death, that he'll never leave Jerusalem alive -- but then that one says many things that never come to pass.
No, matter, I won't listen to bad talk about Mary. When I lost baby Ethan last year, she was the one who stayed with me; she fed me spoonful by spoonful; she bought balm and rubbed it on my temples; she even sang for me when I couldn't sleep. Truth be told, she kept me from going mad.
I loved him so, my firstborn.... If I'd known I'd only have him for so short a time, not even two years, I would have held each moment like a rare jewel. I would have marked each day by putting to memory each precious thing. The day he smiled and I saw the white of a tooth. The way his hair curled with sweat when he slept in the heat of the day. His giggle when I scooped river water over his head and it ran down his fat little arms. My mother and the other old women tell me I'm young, I can have another ... but I would give any amount to have just one more day with him, 300 denarii, 600 ... anything.
Life goes by day by day, and the hours are filled with the sameness of things. Each day I'd rise in the morning, eat the last night's leftover bread and a fig, sweep out our room, beat the rugs against the wall, go to the well and return with the heavy water jar on one hip, the baby on the other. How could I know how quickly it could all change? I didn't see that in one moment, in the time it takes for one breath, what you love most can be torn from you, leaving your arms and your heart empty.
If we knew that, if we could keep it in our minds every morning when we wake, remind ourselves of it each night when we lay down to sleep, would we live our lives differently? Would we always speak with kindness? Would we sit outside together in the evening and watch the disappearing sun fill the sky with colors? Would we kiss our babies more? I don't know -- I'm just a peasant girl with no learning, and certainly small wisdom.
Maybe if I'd been a better mother, a better wife ... maybe if we'd sacrificed a calf instead of that tiny goat kid ... maybe the baby would be sleeping now in the basket that still sits in the corner. Even yet, there is a weight pressing my heart into stone.
But this Jesus ... he says it doesn't have to be that way. Jesus says that love is stronger than death. That we will never be parted from the ones we love. He says that God loves us and cares for us, suffers with us when we think we cannot take one more thing, gives life where there is death. Mary told me that all those laws the priests quote again and again aren't nearly as important as trying to live every day with love. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Just to love. Jesus says God doesn't want sacrifices -- goat kids or lambs. All God wants is our hearts.
I don't understand it all -- I lay awake late last night, the light from the stars shining through the shutters, and I thought about everything that's happened. What he teaches is so different from what the priests at the temple say. Mary plans to follow him to Jerusalem; she's going to walk with him when he enters the gates. And, oh, it will be grand, she says. Some say he's going to declare himself a king. Some say he'll throw the Romans out of all Judea. There is much talk of rebellion.
But the other night in Bethany, there was no talk of kings, or battles, or conquering the world. He came in, some of his disciples, too, and just sat there, stretching his dusty feet out before him. I could tell he was tired, the skin shadowed under his eyes, the way he slumped on the stool. Mary came in and went right to him. Kneeling, she undid his sandals, and placed them to the side. Then the rich fragrance of nard filled the room.
I watched Mary rub the soreness from his feet, Martha clucking her tongue about the waste. Slowly Mary untwined the thick braid -- her hair must have felt like fine silk against his calloused skin. He reached out and touched her shoulder, mumbling his thanks, and something else, too, so soft I couldn't make out the words, something about peace. Then Mary closed her eyes and bowed her head. For a moment, I thought she was weeping. It was still in the room, and felt so strange, like we were in a great temple, with God right there with us.
Then there was the sound of laughter from the street. Mary stood, and went to help Martha, and we all went back to what we were doing.
My husband Elias is angry, threatening to beat me, though he never would. He tells me this is no business for a good Jew, much less a woman, to get all worked up about -- that I should stop asking questions and let things lie. Elias is older, and he knows best. He says that this man from Nazareth is just one more trickster like all the others who perform magic for money. That all this
talk of love is foolish, nothing more than looking for an easy way. Disobeying the laws will only lead to trouble, he says, and I suppose he's right.
But, Jesus' words ... I can't get them out of my mind.
Well, I have to work to do -- can't be wasting all day here by the well.
You know, Elias is wrong about one thing. Love is never easy. Sometimes it costs everything ... everything. And the man from Nazareth knows it -- I can tell by the sadness in his eyes.
The sky's getting dark; I'd better get home before it rains.
