Archive for February, 1926

The Liminal Tribunal

Tuesday, February 2nd, 1926 





Dawn, in a garden that feels both real and otherworldly.
Stone benches form no rows but a rough semicircle.
The air hums faintly, like the moment between heartbeats.
PETER stands, pacing like a prosecutor preparing charges against unseen defendants—yet the weight is also on himself.
MARY MAGDALENE sits calmly on a low stone, witness and evidence combined.
JESUS hovers in shadow and light, not judge, not witness, but the law itself.





PETER (voice like a gavel striking)
You!
You saw him first!
You heard him!
You remember what none of us can!
Why her?
Why show what I cannot hold?
MARY (measured, authoritative)
Peter… you are speaking aloud what is inside you.
Not me.
Not them.
You.
PETER (staggering, almost ritualistic)
I am responsible.
I must name it.
I must make it law!
I must tell them what to fear…
Or what to trust…
Or what to be forgiven for…
(He drops to one knee, voice breaking, accusation turning inward.)
PETER
I… am guilty for wanting walls
where there is only light!
I… am guilty for fearing freedom!
MARY (rising slowly, as though rising evidence from the stone itself)
You are not the law.
You are the witness.
You do not bind what is not yours to bind.
PETER (voice shaking, cadence like a chant, indictment and self-prosecution entwined)
I watched them cling to sin as if it were breath!
I watched them stumble!
I watched them fail!
I… I… am the one who must hold it!
I… am the one who must punish myself if they forget!
(The garden seems to lean in. The air thickens. Jesus steps forward—light radiates but does not burn. His voice is calm, omnipresent.)
JESUS
Peter… you fear
that love will not remind you.
PETER (pleading, almost ceremonial)
It will not!
It cannot!
I am the keeper!
MARY (like a scroll being unrolled before the tribunal)
No.
You are the witness.
See, remember. Let that be enough.
(Peter’s knees buckle. He bows his head in both shame and awe. The garden holds its breath. The tension is not resolved; it is sacred.)
PETER (whispering, self-prosecuting chant)
I… am the judge…
I… am the accused…
I… am… undone…
(Jesus extends neither hand nor word further. His presence is the law itself—light, memory, forgiveness, unbinding. Mary’s calm persists, unshakable.)
MARY
I remember.
You remember.
Let that be enough.
(Peter trembles, broken open but alive to the truth beyond his control.
Jesus steps back into the half-light, almost dissolving. The garden breathes. Morning finally arrives, but it is no longer the same.
The tribunal has convened, but no verdict is ever pronounced. Only witness, memory, and the law of love remain.)
Blackout.






				


				
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One Who Did Not Sleep

				Tuesday, February 2nd, 1926

				

					






She does not enter the garden.
The olive trees keep their own counsel,
leaves whispering a grief meant for men
who will not stay awake.
Mary waits where the path thins—
not close enough to interrupt,
not far enough to flee.
She hears nothing clearly.
Only the ground breathing.
Only the night tightening its grip.
Only a weight in the air that presses
like a hand over the mouth of the world.
Inside, someone kneels.
Outside, someone keeps vigil.
She does not pray for escape.
She has learned that love does not bargain.
It listens.
It endures.
It lets the dark finish speaking.
A disciple’s snore drifts toward her,
soft as betrayal.
She does not judge.
She knows fear has many postures.
When the garden begins to tremble—
when footsteps gather like a verdict—
she straightens, already standing
where tomorrow will need her.
She will remember this night
without words.
She will carry it like oil,
sealed, unbroken,
until the stone is rolled away.

				


				
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