Note: This drama was written for a sunrise service and was originally performed by one person. It would also be effective to employ different readers, perhaps in costume. If you enlist more than one reader, station them across the front of the stage area with the celebrant in the middle. (jb)

Celebrant
So it's Easter again. We're up at dawn-celebrating the rising of the Son-outside, sitting on dew damp grass. Listen. At this high and holy moment, all creation celebrates the unity that should be-the intended harmony-the ongoing work of a creating God who dreams.

Listen! Do you hear the voices of Easter all around us?-whispering in the river-singing on the wind-shhhh-the birds hear-listen to them echoing-do you hear your heart? Listen. Listen to the voices of Easter:
Pilate

I washed my hands of it. It was one of those symbolic actions that we politicians are so skilled at-like kissing babies, and shaking the hand of someone we can't stand while grinning at them. A symbolic action-designed to allow us to control as many of the consequences as we can.

So I dipped my hands in a basin of water that I had brought out-swished them around, rinsed them thoroughly, then held them up high and dramatically dried them off-a symbolic action-a symbolic gesture full of drama and photo opportunity, but signifying nothing-a symbolic actionbut it wouldn't stay symbolic. Some actions, some gestures go beyond symbol-tapping into something fundamental that is more real and more true than we are-connecting us to that reality-to that truth.

And whether or not waters flow in symbolic action, we are immersed in this more, and if we do it wrong we'll never feel clean, and the more we try and wash off, the dirtier we'll feel (Out, damned spot! Out, I say!), but if we do it right, we're clean forever-having buried our lesser parts and having been raised to the newness of being a part of the more. I buried the parts of me longing for the more and raised the lesser parts of me to a deadness of life with which no one would be well pleased-least of all myself, and what's done cannot be undone.

Guard
I was told to watch the stone. I watched the stone. I never fell asleep. I hear they say I fell asleep. I never fell asleep. I was watching the stone-like they told me to-my eyes never left it, and I'm sitting there watching this stone and suddenly there was a great noise-a rattling and then there was a bunch of stones coming together-stone to stone-this stone connecting to that stone-this stone to that one-constructing something-something far bigger than I could see-extending beyond sightI looked, and as the stones came together they ceased to be separate only, but became also part of one mighty whole, and it was utterly still. Waiting?

And then the wind swirled around me-whirled around me-into this-into it, and deep deep within the stone I was watching, the cornerstone of this assembly, there was a pulse-a pulse of light-a wild singing against which it seemed nothing could prevail, and I was looking at something so much more than a collection of stones.

I watched that stone. I still see it-the foundation of something I don't understand-the cornerstone of something immense and strange and beautiful-eternal and alive.

Disciple
I ran. I remember running. Running away from the angry crowd around him. Running toward the tomb. I remember a sense of driven-ness-a sense on the one hand of not being able to get away from him fast enough-a sense on the other hand of not being able to get to him fast enough-and between the two extremes-the crowing of a bird. I remember a sense of urgency-this can't happen soon enough-ordinary time's too slow for what needs to happen here. And I remember a sense of the impossible-of what could not be-surely I'm not running away from my friend-my teacher-my master-when he needs me most-and then surely I'm not running to a tomb expecting what cannot be.

I remember reaching the point where you don't think your body can keep up with what you want it to do-the spirit is willing, but the- oh, my God. I'm running, and there is fear, and there is great joy.

I'm still running-sometimes away-sometimes towards. When confronted with God-there is fear and there is great joy, and I can't respond soon enough.

Mary Magdalene
I stand-having trouble breathing-as if it weren't something natural, something automatic-as if it were new and surprising-my heart pounding like it was going to project itself right out of my chest-as if I'd been running away from something-toward something that pushed me beyond myself-as if I were a new born baby for whom nothing was natural.

And there were stones that looked like lightning, and they moved like thunder, and my eyes were so intense that they hurt-because I was looking at something that should have been full, but was empty. And I heard the sound of someone walking in the garden and I thought they had hidden him and I couldn't see and he spoke and I couldn't see him, and then he named me, and I was called out of my hiding, and I saw one who should've been empty, but was full-raised to a strange and beautiful newness.

There was a wild singing-lightning pulsed around us, and I saw the undoing of what had been done, and there was fear, and there was great joy.

Celebrant
Listen-to symbols that won't stay symbols-that tap into reality and truth.
Listen to the river: washing-cleansing.
Listen to the wind: the breath of one who sings life eternal.
Listen to the birds: between your fear and your joy.
Listen to your heart: telling you that all is new and that you can be full.
Listen to the voices of Easter-telling you your story-telling you that God is part of your story-that God dreams of you being a part of the harmony-a part of the assembly-one with light and life.
Listen.

-from the 98 Seeds Lenten/Easter worship packet. John Ballenger, a minister in Atlanta, Georgia,