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It was originally performed by Elsa Peters and Stacy Smith at Union Theological Seminary in New York City in May 2006.
(The two women start seated in chairs about three feet from one another, facing straight forward. They are unaware of the other one when they begin speaking.)
SARAH: In the greatest sense of myself
HAGAR: With a clear vision of my own identity
SARAH: I am not myself
HAGAR: I see that I am not a person
SARAH: I am not a woman, with a birth and a life and a death
HAGAR: I am not even a slave
SARAH: I am not Hebrew
HAGAR: I am not Egyptian
SARAH: My name is not Sarai
HAGAR: I am not called Hagar
SARAH: Or Sarah
HAGAR: Or Hajar
SARAH: I am the matriarch
HAGAR: I am the matriarch
SARAH: I am Jewish and I am Christian
HAGAR: I am Muslim and I am African
SARAH: I bear the birth of my people
HAGAR: In my own history
SARAH: And so I am honored
HAGAR: I am revered
SARAH: But I am despised
HAGAR: And I am shamed
SARAH: But it was not always so. There was a time when I was a person. Barely a person, only a woman, not a mother. But I had a home and a husband. My husband had no need of children; he was content in life and so was I. Looking back, I’m almost embarrassed to admit our lineage was of little importance to us back then. We always did swim against the current, I suppose. And there were expectations, no doubt they were there, but we paid them little attention. We lived a life, and it was ours.
HAGAR: I never had much of anything. Everything was always…I really don’t know whose it was, but it was never mine. I’m sorry, I don’t remember much from those days. A lot has happened since then, and it’s hard to remember myself as a person. But I was, I know I was. There was a time when I lived, and I lived free and happy. It wasn’t much. I was a woman and a slave, so back then I meant very little. But there was a place in time that was mine, a series of moments where I walked and talked and lived. At least I had that much. Read more
That was a Wednesday night in May 2000, and for the next two years I was a weekly fixture for karaoke unless I was out of town. Stomach bug? I’d take my saltines with me. Paper due at 8:00am the next morning? I’d get it done ahead of time. I joked that karaoke was my spiritual discipline. At the very least, it was a sacred ritual. At first glance, my devotion was out of character for me. For one, I never have been a partier. I am actually an extreme introvert. And I am not a singer, not in the car when others are with me, not even in a choir, where my flat voice would be drowned out by much more ear-pleasing ones. For goodness’ sake, as a child I lip synced for the elementary school talent show.
Yet the elbows of trusted friends convinced me to pick up the mic that first night, and I guess you could say I caught the fever (The Spirit blows where it wills…). After a few weeks the DJ started choosing songs for me, and I would occasionally get requests to sing someone’s favorite number. This was due to my willingness to put a little hip into the routine, not to a miraculous shoring up of my voice. I had a signature song and competed in monthly contests. I was part of a community of regulars who encouraged my dramatic side. I enjoyed a “Norm!” moment every week when I walked into that hallowed space. Read more
You are now reading into a moment when this minister wishes there was no church at all, so that she could enjoy a Saturday night like everyone else.
Tonight I wrote a sermon in the midst of a party I could not attend.
I live in the heart of downtown Indianapolis, a city that is currently teeming with the excitement of both St. Patrick’s Day weekend and the Big 10 Basketball Tournament. I actually live across the street from Conseco Fieldhouse, where the tournament is being held. I didn’t really choose this location because I love basketball, but for the energy and excitement of downtown life. I moved into this building so it would be easy to meet people and have fun.
After living in New York City for three years, I was not too excited about biding my two-year fellowship in a garden apartment in the suburbs where I knew no one. So I opted for a choice location right in the middle of it all. Indianapolis is actually a pretty great city, and has a good downtown. I can walk to Nordstrom and the Indy Repertory Theater and Sushi on the Rocks. I live next door to a rowdy dueling piano bar. The bartenders know my drink and I have met some great people in my building.
There is a sports bar in the ground floor of where I live; I don’t even have to go outside to find the party. It’s right here. During big events like this weekend, they close off part of the parking lot for bands to play. Right now I can still hear the music playing downstairs, floating up from the streets and through my thin windows. The guitar and bongo players are actually really good. They are playing all my favorite songs, and other people my age are drinking and celebrating and jamming to the good music. All I want to do is share a beer with a friend. Maybe request a slow song, something like “Satellite” or “One,” hold hands with him and sneak a quick kiss before the band returns to playing “Wonderwall” or I “Walk the Line.”
But it’s Saturday night and once again I have procrastinated my sermon. There is no chance for that beer tonight. There is no one to sing with or hold hands with or kiss. There is only the looming of Sunday morning responsibilities – and the probability that I won’t be able to sleep with all this noise and nonsense. Read more
