Down from the Cross (20 page)

Pastor Congdon caught hold of Jane’s arm as she moved into the wide hallway. “Is Keene still in his dressing room?”

“Yes, he is.” Blinking hard, she turned her head away and scurried on down the hall.

Keene stood staring at the open door. He had never seen Jane this emotional.

“Keene. I’m glad you’re still here.” Pastor Congdon hurried into the little room. “I’d like to pray for you before tonight’s performance.”

“Ah… sure. That’d be fine.”
What is this? Stack it on Keene night? First Jane. Now Pastor Congdon?
“Good. Would you kneel, please?”

Without replying, Keene lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head, feeling like a marauder in front of this godly man, Jane’s accusing words fresh in his mind.

“Lord,” Pastor Congdon began, placing his hands on Keene’s shoulders. “I come to You tonight asking that, through this man who is so willingly giving of his time and talents, You will perform a great and mighty work. Use his voice as an instrument to speak to hearts, make Yourself real to those in our audience who have never accepted You as their Lord and Savior, and bring them to Yourself. Bless Keene, I pray, and may he feel the power of the prayer that has gone up for him. And most of all, may He feel Your touch upon his own life. Amen.”

His hand still on Keene’s shoulders, Pastor Congdon said with great sincerity, “You’re a fine man, Keene. I am sure God has a special plan just for you. Thank you for everything you’ve done for us.”

Keene rose slowly, his eyes fixed on the man’s hand as it was extended toward him with a smile. “Thanks, Pastor Congdon,” he muttered nervously, the prayer nearly overwhelming him. These people really cared about him. He reached out and shook the pastor’s hand. “Being here, working with you and the fine people of this church, has been a wonderful experience I won’t soon forget.”

Suddenly the overture sounded. Glancing at his watch, Pastor Congdon headed for the door. “Guess you’d better get onstage. Remember, I’ll be praying for you!”

“I will, and thanks.”
It seems everyone is praying for me.

Putting on her Mary costume for the final time, Jane couldn’t believe how quickly the week of performances had passed. Soon this year’s Easter presentation would be over, Keene would be going back to New York, and she would be looking for a job.

But in some ways things had been different tonight. In each scene in which Keene had appeared, she noticed a difference in him. He had seemed more intense, more involved than she remembered him being the past seven nights. Was this the way it always was for him on the closing night of a performance? Knowing it would be the last time he would sing the part, did he put more of himself into it than on the other nights?

She moved into an area at the edge of the set, waiting for her turn to enter. Suddenly, just a few feet from where she stood, Keene appeared as Jesus, His body bowed beneath the weight of the cross. She listened to the words of the narrator reading passages from Isaiah as Jesus moved onstage. “He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. Surely He bears our sorrows, and with His stripes we are healed.”

Jesus stumbled and fell, and it was as if a dagger were plunged into her heart. How could her Lord have been treated this way? When He had done nothing but come to save people from their sins?

Stepping forward, she followed Him up the hill to Calvary, aching for the deep wounds His body bore from the many beatings He had suffered, the thorn of crowns piercing His brow, the blood running down His forehead and into His eyes, watching while the soldiers spat upon Him and jeered Him, shoving Him and making a mockery of Him. The script called for her to pretend she was upset and crying, but there was no pretense in the emotions racking her when she beheld her Lord suffering so. She could not hold back the flood of tears that overcame her. As Mary, she screamed out for them to stop!

But… they didn’t stop.

Someone, a man from the throng that had assembled, took the cross upon his own shoulders when Jesus fell and carried it for Him, placing it where the soldiers directed.

Then, shoving Jesus down, showing Him no mercy, they placed Him on the cross, pulling his arms open wide while they held him there.

As it neared time for Jane to sing, she felt sure she would not be able to utter a word. She watched, feeling pain for her Lord, her breath coming in short, quick gasps and her chest heaving with each sob. But knowing she must do it for God, she pled with Him for the strength and the voice to go on. Moving closer to Jesus and lifting her face heavenward, she began to sing. With tears flowing down her face, she raised her voice to God. By the time she reached the final lines, she was weeping so hard she could barely get the words out, and she had to pause to catch her breath.
Sing it as Mary would sing it, Jane.
Ben’s words, the words he’d said to her that first night they’d practiced her solo, came back to her.
For these few minutes, you are Mary, the mother of Jesus. Be her. Respond the way she would respond. Weep as she would weep. Cry out the way she cried out. Forget about the audience. Do this for Him, Jane.

Your Lord. Your God. The One who took your sins upon Himself and died on the cross for you. Think of His pain, His agony as He hung there on the cross as Mary would have thought of it. Take on her personality. Her demeanor. And yes—her burden. If you cry— so be it! If you have to stop and compose yourself before you can go on—so be it! Become Mary, Jane! Forget who you are, and be who God wants you to be at that moment. Mary, the mother of Jesus, and sing it from the depths of your heart.

Without orchestral accompaniment and holding her hands up to God, she sang the final two lines with all the emotion she had tried so hard to keep tucked inside.

“How… can this be happening?

“How… can this be true?

“Can it be, dear Father God”—Help me, Lord! “That You are crying, too?”

The sound of the first nail being driven through Jesus’ hand echoed throughout the sanctuary, the entire room falling into a riveting silence. Jane cringed at the sound.

Then the second nail was driven into His other hand, and it was as if she herself could feel the pain.

The soldier with the hammer stepped over Christ’s limp and bleeding body and moved to His feet, securing one foot to the upright beam with a third nail. An audible gasp swept over the audience, many people turning their heads away.

The hideous sight made Jane sick to her stomach as the fourth nail pierced His other foot, anchoring it, too, to the beam. The sound penetrated her very bones. She would never forget it.

She leaned forward on a trembling hand, trying to get a look at Jesus’ face as the soldiers moved in and lifted the cross into an upright position with Jesus hanging there. The sight was nearly too much to bear, and she wanted to turn her head away, but instead she kept her eyes fastened on Jesus’ face, the reality of what He had done for her overpowering. Were those actual tears trailing down his cheeks? There was something in the expression on Keene’s face. Something she had never seen before. A tenderness. A longing she had never witnessed, and her heart nearly burst with both love and pity for this man. He had so much and yet so little.
Speak to him, Lord!
her heart cried out.

“All we like sheep have gone astray,” the narrator’s words came slowly over the microphone. “We have turned, every one, to his own way, and the Lord has laid on Him the iniquity of us all.”

Just as he had done every other night, Jesus lowered His head and tenderly asked the apostle John to take care of His mother.

Then one of the thieves hanging on a cross beside Him called out sarcastically, “If Thou be the Christ, save Thyself and us!”

Like they had rehearsed it, the thief on the other cross lifted his weary head and rebuked him. “Dost thou not fear God? We receive the due reward of our deeds, but this man hath done nothing!” Then, with great effort, he lifted his face toward Jesus. “Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom.”

Gasping for air and in terrible pain, Jesus turned to the second thief, His mournful gaze fixed on the man.

Jane stared at Keene, waiting for his response, but he simply continued to look intently at the man, his chest heaving up and down as if he could not catch his breath.

The soldiers looked at one another, their faces filled with question.

One of the soldiers whispered, “Today thou shalt be with Me in paradise.” But the man’s helpful cue was ignored as Keene continued to stare at the thief, his eyes almost glassy.

From offstage, the stage manager called out in a low voice, “Today thou shalt be with Me in paradise.” But he, too, was ignored.

A buzz circulated through the audience. Something was wrong!

What was happening?

Why wasn’t Keene saying his line? Surely, Keene Moray, the man who had sung many difficult parts to thousands of people all over the world, had not forgotten his lines. And if he had, why wasn’t he taking his cues when they were repeated for him?

“Keene,” Jane called out to him in a guarded voice. “Say your line!”

But he continued to hang there, his deep guttural breaths the only sounds coming from him and echoing out over the sanctuary’s powerful speakers.

It was all Jane could do to keep from shouting out the line to him. Off to one side, she noticed Ben slip onto the stage, an old robe from the wardrobe rack slung over his back to cover his street clothes. Cupping his mouth with his hands, he said in a lowered voice, “Keene! ‘Today thou shalt be with Me in paradise.’ Say it!” Still no response.

The orchestra stopped playing, and all eyes fixed on Keene, battered and bleeding, his arms sagging with his body weight as he hung on the cross.

Once again, Ben called out. But still Keene did nothing but stare blankly at the thief hanging beside him, his chest rising and lowering as he sucked in deep breaths of air.

For the first time, Jane realized his tears were not only real, but he was sobbing from the depths of his being. Staying low, she crawled to the foot of the cross and, looking up at him, said in a pleading voice, “Keene! Say your line, please; everyone is waiting!”

As if he had suddenly come back to reality, he turned his head slowly and gazed down at her.

“Please, Keene,” she implored softly, brushing away the tears from her cheeks. “Please.”

Next he turned his head from one side to the other, taking in each face on the stage. Then his attention went to the soldiers who were standing at his feet, looking up at him with widened eyes, their faces filled with confusion.

“Get me down,” he said in a whisper.

The soldiers looked to one another with bewilderment. “Get me down.”

The lead soldier looked toward Ben for direction.

With a frown, Ben shook his head. “Don’t listen to him.”

“I said, get me down,” Keene said a third time, tugging on the fetters that held his arms.

“I think we should take him down,” one of the taller soldiers told the others. “Maybe he’s having a heart attack.”

“No, don’t!” another said. “Not without Ben saying it’s okay.”

With beads of sweat now covering his tired face and his body perspiring visibly, Keene took several more deep breaths. “Take me down from this cross.”

Ben hunched over and moved to the foot of the cross. “We can’t, Keene. It will ruin the cantata. Say your line.”

Keene lifted his eyes heavenward, and on his face was a look of sheer torment.

Apparently forgetting his plaid shirt and khakis, the stage manager hurried to stand beside Ben. “Keene, are you okay? Do you need a doctor?”

A murmur went through the audience. Some began to stand, their curiosity getting the better of them. Others fell on their knees by their chairs, praying, while others simply sat staring.

“Get—me—down—from—this—cross—now,” Keene said in a firm voice, again struggling against the cords binding his wrists and feet. “I have to get down from this cross! Now!”

Ben and the stage manager looked at each other then motioned for the soldiers to take him down. Several of the men from the crowd stepped forward to help hold his weight while another man climbed up the crude ladder mounted on the back side of the cross, loosening first one arm and then the other. Someone on the floor unbound his feet. Wrapping the long length of fabric that had been prepared to secure him across his chest and under his arms, they carefully lowered him to the floor.