Sunday, December 7, 1997

The Rev. Joey Noble

"Elizabeth, A Dramatic Monolog"

Today's sermon was adapted from the dramatic monologue which is found in the book, Character Witnesses, by Ray Kostulias. Rev. Kostulias, is a UCC minister in New Jersey who has put together many dramatic monologues. This book can be ordered from Pilgrim Press, 700 Prospect Avenue, Cleveland, Ohio 44115-1100.

Elizabeth
by Ray Kostulias

LUKE 1: 5 - 79

I am Elizabeth. It means "God's promise." All the contradictions of my life are in that name.

A daughter of the house of Aaron, I trace my lineage to the very beginnings of our sacred priesthood, to the brother of Moses himself. The Torah proclaims that Aaron was "the holiest of men." The voice of the Exodus, chosen by Yahweh to speak for the tongue-tied deliverer of our race. Witness to plagues and miracles, the pillar of fire, the parting of the sea. But for all his eloquence and piety, Aaron doubted. In the wilderness at Meribah, he questioned God's promise to bring water from the rock.

Wilderness. Water from a rock. I see that empty landscape, feel those impossible hopes. I understand my devoted, doubting ancestor very well.

As a child, I had no reason to be suspicious of the goodness of life, the goodness of God, for they were one. Many mornings I would leave my bed before dawn, race out into an open field, fall on my back, and gaze up at the darkness as it slowly, sensuously yielded to the light. Fingers of daylight brushed back the curtain of night, and all my little hurts and fears faded into the gleaming golds and soft reds of sunrise. Nothing could dim or delay the triumph of a new morning.

It was a simple life, comforting and predictable - the same household chores each day, the same family rituals season after season, the feasts and fasts of our religion that we observed with meticulous care. A sense of order, purpose, safety. And time. After all the routine obligations, time enough to dream.

But that time for dreams came to an end. When I reached a suitable age for marriage, an engagement was arranged for me. I was terrified that this new turn in my life would carry me away from the comforts of home and the joy I had known. And so it did.

It was not the fault of my betrothed. Zechariah was as faithful and well-born as I, and he too was of a priestly family. He was a gentle, kindly man, and although we were practically strangers on our wedding day, as he took my hand I sensed his determination to love me. I hoped he could read the same vow in my eyes.

An ideal match, everyone said. Both from good stock, of strong faith, and bearers of tradition.

But I knew my husband-to-be was bound by a more formal evaluation of my worthiness, one demanded by the law we both revered. In Leviticus it is written: "A widow or one divorced, or a woman who has been defiled, or a harlot, these he shall not marry, but he shall take to wife a virgin of his own people. "

It was an easy test for me to pass, and I felt a surge of pride in my self-examination. It was the life I had been trained for, to glorify God with my soul and my body.

But it was my body that betrayed me.

Zechariah never spoke of it, never showed his disappointment, never addressed me in anger, but I needed no reminder of my failure. Year after year passed, and still I had not conceived. I gave Zechariah love, respect, companionship - everything he might have hoped for from a wife - everything except that which he most desired, a child.

I was barren.

What a cold, terrible word: barren. Dry, desolate, lifeless. The most unbearable curse for a woman of my culture. The pain of it kicked deep within my useless womb.

But in spite of my anguish, I refused to soften my devotion to the law. It was a form of vengeance. I was pregnant with bitterness, a deformed substitute for the baby I could not produce. It was no longer enough to merely observe the commandments. Anyone could do that. Women nursing gurgling infants at their breasts could do that. Elizabeth - barren, unfulfilled, unblessed Elizabeth would do more.

The worst sins were easy to avoid. I concentrated on the tiniest temptations, those minor sacrifices that for others were optional, occasional, hardly significant. For me, they became all-consuming proofs of my righteousness. If we were taught to abstain from meat for a day, I ate nothing at all for many days. If we were instructed to pray at certain hours, I prayed from morning till night. What even God did not require, I demanded of myself.

This ordeal of my soul distracted me from the shame of my body, although not completely. In rare, unguarded moments, ruthless, rebellious thoughts slipped into my mind. What had I done to be so unmercifully punished? If I had entered the world blind or deaf, would I be reproached for my affliction? Would women raise their hands to their faces to mask their scornful expressions as I passed by? Would men stare at me accusingly? Would I deserve no pity, only disdain? And why should there be ridicule for a wife, sympathy for a husband? Flesh of our flesh! A union in joy must also be a union in sorrow. What we could not accomplish together should not be my burden to carry alone.

Still, I did not blame Zechariah or even those who mocked my pain. My grievance was with God. Even as I performed every minute, meaningless duty, the question that stood between me and heaven was: Why?

I was an old woman when the answer was finally given.

[Pause]

The day began normally. Zechariah seemed troubled and distant as he left for the temple, but it was not unusual for him to be preoccupied with matters deemed to be beyond a woman's concern. More than most of his fellow priests, he valued the counsel of his wife, and I was sometimes permitted to discuss difficult religious matters with him. When he chose to remain silent, I did not press him.

At midday, he returned, but not by his own power. He was carried by several young men and surrounded by a small crowd. He looked ill, pale, weak, and confused. The men brought him into the house and laid him on our bed.

"He's had a vision," someone said.

In bits and pieces, the story was told by the awestruck witnesses. Zechariah had entered the temple to burn incense to the Lord. It was the custom after this for the priest to emerge from the sanctuary and deliver a blessing to the people. When Zechariah didn't reappear, the assembly began to wonder at the delay. Finally he came out, but he seemed dazed, and he was unable to speak. He made signs with his hands, and the people translated from his desperate gestures the message that he had been visited by an angel of God.

I did not wish to hear any more. I moved to the door and asked them all to leave.

Then Zechariah uttered an urgent sound and gestured for a writing tablet. His hand shook as he scratched out the words. Standing over him, I read each one as it was completed: Elizabeth shall bear a son.

Elizabeth

Tears came to my eyes, but I held them back. Please leave us now," I said, my voice trembling.

Zechariah groaned and tried to rise. He shook his head frantically and wrote again. One of the younger priests knelt beside him and read aloud: He shall turn the sons of Israel to the Lord.... He shall make them a people prepared....

"Prepared!" I screamed. "I was prepared all my life to bear a child. Look at me! Look at me now! Look at this silver hair and this wrinkled face! Do you see a woman prepared to bear a son?"

"Elizabeth, " the young priest said. "It is the word of God. "

"No," I cried. "The word of God has already been spoken. A harsh and hopeless word that I will take with me to the grave."

And then I turned to look at my husband, to look into his eyes, 11is eyes that said more than the words he could not speak. Silently, l1e implored me: Elizabeth, please believe.

[Pause]

Three months later, it was no longer a question of belief. Obviously, miraculously, I was with child.

And I was not prepared for the feelings that possessed me. It was not only joy that sometimes made me light-headed. The child within me sapped all my strength so that by midday I was too tired to remain on my feet. Fixing the evening meal, I thought only of sleep. I had little appetite and had to persuade myself to eat, if only for the baby's sake. I felt ill almost every morning. I never dared say so out loud, but I sometimes wished that my prayer had never been answered.

Then I would place my hand on my swollen middle, feel the baby's pulse on my skin, and pray that my wornout body might have enough life left to bring him into the world.

In my sixth month I was visited by my cousin Mary. She too was expecting a child. We must have made quite a sight, the pair of us - so different in age but so much alike in our condition. We shared the joy only a mother can know, in ecstatic dialogue:

My soul magnifies the Lord. My spirit rejoices in God. I feel the power burning beneath my skin. The mystery of carrying life inside me, to release it as a gift to the world. A blessing for the generations. Am I worthy? A new hope, growing, out of sight - sometimes forgotten but always there. Mine, but not mine yet. Only God can protect him inside me. That is faith. What we can't know, God knows. That is the promise to all generations. To Elizabeth and Mary, my child and yours.

[Pause]

Mary stayed with me for several months. She was a great comfort to me, able to share the small pleasures and great hopes and sometimes the awful fears. Much later I would learn that Mary had not shared all of her fears with me.

She wasn't with me when my time came to deliver, and I missed her. In spite of her youth, she understood, and hers was a hand I wish I could have held as my son was being born.

There were other hands to hold, though. Neighbors arrived to assist at the birth, and later to rejoice with me. Some of them were those who had looked down on me before. Now they turned to me tearfully for a sign of forgiveness. And it was my pleasure to release them from guilt with a smile. All that had once divided us seemed suddenly so trivial. The arguments, jealousies, and betrayals . . . so foolish, so inconsequential once that wailing infant was laid in my arms.

[Pause]

Elizabeth

But there is more to the story. A final scene took place on the eighth day after the birth, the day appointed for the rite of circumcision. I shocked the gathering with my choice of a name for my son: John.

There were gasps and murmured objections. It was not traditional. Not a family name.

I smiled at Zechariah, and he motioned for the writing tablet. He wrote and held it up for them to see: John.

Zechariah kissed me softly, and I felt his tears on my cheek. And then, for the first time in nine months, he spoke: "Blessed be the Lord God of Israel . . .." He took the baby in his arms and said, "You, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High."

I did not have to understand those words completely to believe them. Like a sunrise, they were too beautiful to be explained, too glorious to be denied.

What I did understand -at last - is that birth is a gate, a gate we pass through again and again. And pain is a path. God's voice is the helpless, powerful scream of a newborn child. That voice is our voice, no matter how young or how old we are.

With my own unexpected, precious little one asleep in my arms, I could finally entrust his fate and mine to a greater plan, to God's promise for him, for me, for US all.

Back to Table of Contents.