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DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE:
St. Anthony of Egypt Goes to Walmart
It’s very cold here,
So cold the ants won’t come inside.
Neither will the angels,
But the demons will go anywhere.
There are so many of them,
It’s like flies on a donkey,
But no one swats them away
Or even seems to see them.
I wish I were back in the desert
Where I don’t have to speak.
A man with badges on his clothing
Stole my knife.
He smelled of wine and the meat of
Slaughtered animals.
As he is a thief, I offered him also my sheepskin,
As our Lord Jesus has commanded,
But he refused with contempt on his bloated face,
As though he already had better sheepskins.
Now I have nothing with which to cut reeds
When I return to the marsh near the Nile--
Nothing with which to cut the reeds into strips
To weave into baskets--
One basket a day, braided and unbraided,
Then braided again
As I say my prayers through the hours of the day.
Then after a night of vigil
Against the demons of darkness
And prayers at dawn,
Off to the market with my basket,
With my sheepskin (not the skin of a slaughtered
And eaten sheep, but an old ram who live out his days
In the desert like and aged monk) over my shoulders,
I stand in silence among the throng.
When someone asks me the price of my basket,
I say the price only once,
No bargaining, no trying for a higher wage.
Someone buys it, and I carry the coin
To the baker for a loaf.
Some of the monks eat only once a week
Never during daylight.
When I was young, I fasted forty days
Like our Savior.
I was nearly dead, but the angels
Came with their sweet warm light
And ministered to me.
I do not want to trouble the angels again.
Now I am old,
And I eat one small loaf a day,
After darkness has come to the desert.
One small loaf is enough, and sometimes
My disciples bring vegetables they have grown.
In the desert, I have everything I need.
But now in this cold, crowded place,
I may starve with no way to find reeds
And my knife stolen.
God will save me as he always does.
Perhaps he has brought me here
To test me again with demons--
All the piles of possessions
Food and sweets of all kinds,
More clothing than a thousand people could wear,
Dishes and jars,
And women, with arms and legs uncovered
And breasts almost bare
Smelling of lilies and strange perfumes.
I trust the forty years of desert prayer
To protect me from these demons,
As I no longer wish to possess anything,
Though my sheepskin on which I lay down
In my cell for an hour or two each night
And wrap around me to cover nakedness
When I venture among seculars as today,
Has become like a warm friend to me.
Perhaps God intends to send another thief
To take my sheepskin.
I would welcome this, as then
I could be like Jesus,
Naked, crucified, put to shame.
But these are thoughts of vainglory.
My fault of vainglory must be God’s reason
For torturing me here in this evil place.
So cold the ants won’t come inside.
Neither will the angels,
But the demons will go anywhere.
There are so many of them,
It’s like flies on a donkey,
But no one swats them away
Or even seems to see them.
I wish I were back in the desert
Where I don’t have to speak.
A man with badges on his clothing
Stole my knife.
He smelled of wine and the meat of
Slaughtered animals.
As he is a thief, I offered him also my sheepskin,
As our Lord Jesus has commanded,
But he refused with contempt on his bloated face,
As though he already had better sheepskins.
Now I have nothing with which to cut reeds
When I return to the marsh near the Nile--
Nothing with which to cut the reeds into strips
To weave into baskets--
One basket a day, braided and unbraided,
Then braided again
As I say my prayers through the hours of the day.
Then after a night of vigil
Against the demons of darkness
And prayers at dawn,
Off to the market with my basket,
With my sheepskin (not the skin of a slaughtered
And eaten sheep, but an old ram who live out his days
In the desert like and aged monk) over my shoulders,
I stand in silence among the throng.
When someone asks me the price of my basket,
I say the price only once,
No bargaining, no trying for a higher wage.
Someone buys it, and I carry the coin
To the baker for a loaf.
Some of the monks eat only once a week
Never during daylight.
When I was young, I fasted forty days
Like our Savior.
I was nearly dead, but the angels
Came with their sweet warm light
And ministered to me.
I do not want to trouble the angels again.
Now I am old,
And I eat one small loaf a day,
After darkness has come to the desert.
One small loaf is enough, and sometimes
My disciples bring vegetables they have grown.
In the desert, I have everything I need.
But now in this cold, crowded place,
I may starve with no way to find reeds
And my knife stolen.
God will save me as he always does.
Perhaps he has brought me here
To test me again with demons--
All the piles of possessions
Food and sweets of all kinds,
More clothing than a thousand people could wear,
Dishes and jars,
And women, with arms and legs uncovered
And breasts almost bare
Smelling of lilies and strange perfumes.
I trust the forty years of desert prayer
To protect me from these demons,
As I no longer wish to possess anything,
Though my sheepskin on which I lay down
In my cell for an hour or two each night
And wrap around me to cover nakedness
When I venture among seculars as today,
Has become like a warm friend to me.
Perhaps God intends to send another thief
To take my sheepskin.
I would welcome this, as then
I could be like Jesus,
Naked, crucified, put to shame.
But these are thoughts of vainglory.
My fault of vainglory must be God’s reason
For torturing me here in this evil place.
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