Mamma mia Monica

Thursday, August 27, 2020    (Memorial of Saint Monica)             (today’s lectionary)

Mamma Mia Monica

For all those everywhere who call upon the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, their Lord and ours,

Grace to you and peace

From God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

When Stephen Adly Guirgis wrote The Last Days of Judas Iscariot for the off-Broadway stage, Jesuit Fr. James Martin took time out from editing America magazine to spend several months educating and advising the author, director Philip Seymour Hoffman, and the actors about the story they were attempting to tell. Fr. Martin shares all in his book A Jesuit Off-Broadway. Here’s a short video with Fr. Martin and some of the characters from the play.

The cast take their places in purgatory for a trial. Will Judas be sent to heaven or hell? Satan is called as a witness, as is Jesus, Sigmund Freud, Mary Magdalene, Caiaphas, Pontius Pilate, Matthew, Peter, Thomas, Mother Teresa, Judas’ mother, and Saint Monica, the mother of Augustine. Monica is a DEFENDER!

I give thanks to my God always on your account.

He will keep you firm always to the end.

God is faithful and by him you were called to fellowship with Jesus.

Saint Monica was born in Algeria. She is African, and Guirgis’ lines for her are intense, black, and righteous. She will defend Judas to the death, so to speak.

My name is MONICA—better known to you mere mortals as SAINT Monica. Yeah, dass right, SAINT—as in “better not don’t get up in my grill ‘cuz I’ll mess your sh–  up, ’cuz I’m a Saint and I got mad saintly connects,” okay?

I got a calling, y’all—you should try giving me a shout if ya ever need it, ‘cuz my name is Saint Monica, I’m the mother of Saint Augustine, one of the Fathers of the Church, and ya know what? My ass gets results!

My high school buddy Henson (Dusty) Keys chaired the UI Theater department for several years, and he brought several edgy plays to Krannert Center, including this one. I took a friend who was looking to push through his resistance to Christianity. We were spellbound. My eyeballs didn’t seem to blink for two hours. My body stayed still in my seat, paralyzed from the inside out. I wept. The end of the play tore through my soul. My cup ranneth over, and my friend’s resistance was reduced.

Every day will I bless you,

And I will praise your name forever and ever.

Saint Monica stuck to her son Augustine like glue. She went where he went, and when he betrayed her Christian beliefs and lifestyle, she got up in his face. But in 386 AD in Milan, Augustine converted. Then, a year later on their way back to Africa from Italy, Monica died.

Ten years after Augustine wrote the first Christian autobiography in history. In his Confessions he lavished his readers with stories of his Mamma mia Monica. At last, off-Broadway in 2005, she had a chance again to shine.

Generation after generation praises your works.

They tell of your great and terrible deeds, they declare your greatness,

They publish the fame of your goodness.

These fourth century dates intimidate me. I keep forgetting that I am not living in the only time the earth has existed. Am I the only one who makes this mistake? I am not after all the center of the universe. My address and lifespan are specific, and how many others have lived how many other places at how many times in history? None of them are me.

You do not know when the Son of Man will come.

Augustine’s writing –  his theologies, epistemologies and biblical understandings prepared the Church and all of us influenced by the Church (all of western civilization, in other words) for millennia of life on earth before “the Son of Man will come.” As far as we know, as of today he has not yet come. But Jesus is pretty clear, and so was Augustine, and so was Monica before him, about what we do while we’re waiting.

Stay awake!

That’s simple enough. Even when you’re sleeping, keep one ear cocked toward heaven.

You must be prepared,

For at an hour you do not expect, the Son of Man will come.

This prophecy/expectation/instruction is the spice of life, or can be. I am excited to be waiting. Waiting for what? The end of history, the beginning of something entirely new? A glorious return to the Garden of Eden? Bungee skydiving high in heaven? All of this and more? I don’t want to curb the workings in my mind, don’t want to define something I can’t know until we get there.

Maybe I’ll take long walks in the evening before sunset on streets paved with gold and lined with Jasper, clear as crystal. Oh heck, I don’t know. My imagination thrives in such places fertilized by heaven – Bible books of prophecy, the stories of Jesus, plays written by off-Broadway writers and edited by Father Martin. Wide-eyed again I can almost see Santa Monica, standing at the bar, locking eyes with the judge and calling out to Judas, “Come, my son. At last let yourself be healed.”

             (1 Corinthians 1, Psalm 145, Matthew 24)

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