THE 13TH CHAPTER
by Nyx Martinez
It's not that I don't want to be here today. It's just that I feel a little bit selfish. Can't I be allowed that feeling? Or must I always be what they expect of me? The smiling one; the sacrificial one; the charitable one? I don't have to be here today...I've done “charity” so much in my life. Possibly more times than I can count on my fingers even if I did it a hundred times over.
And I love the stage. I am a natural performer. Always have been. I am aware of the crowd—the throngs who have come out in the heat of the sun today, expecting to see me talk. Expecting to see me smile. Hoping that I can offer them a word of encouragement, something to brighten their dim circumstances, something that will make that smile jump from my face to theirs.
But...I don't really feel like smiling today. My voice is fine, but I don't really feel like using it. It's a good voice; it's a strong voice. It's been trained to settle crowds and announce rock stars. The same way that it has been trained to act, and to modulate a smile.
And so I climb the stage, saluting the audience as I speak. My words are crisp; my voice is strong. I need no practice. Like I said, I've done this many times before.
Then again, I've done charity so many times before, too. It's what people come to expect of me. They want to know that I can be counted on to be there...to speak, to sing, or to take center stage, just to see these people happy. They want to know they can count on me.
But I'm not giving them much today. I can barely get myself to go up there anyway. I can barely crack my lips into a smile, because I know that my eyes betray myself.
I still take center stage, because that's what they all expect of me. And no, I cannot let them down.
Five minutes into the introduction and I'm getting warmed up. The crowd has drawn thicker. Curiosity is aroused by the sound of my foreign accent. All eyes are on me now....close to a thousand men, waiting to hear me speak. My voice does not tremble at all. It is steady, while my heart is not. It is firm, while my spirit is downcast.
“What is wrong with me today?” I wonder. “Why does my smile so betray my heart? Why does the sun feel like it's blinding my soul?”
Our guest speaker takes the mike. I will be on this stage for the next seven hours, so I don't mind. He begins to lead the invocation, and since it is a dialect I am not fluent in, my mind wanders a bit.
The sky begins to glow overcast, and I feel that greyness creep up on me again inside. It slightly rumbles, and I feel that, too. I think of other things; of places I would rather be...the words I hear spoken by the other voice on the mike become a blur, until one English line is spoken, capturing my rapt attention and drawing the truth up into me like I have never heard it before:
“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels...” the voice, in its broken English, recites the well-known verse, the one I quoted so often in just a ramble. And it awakens me to where I am. The middle of a Maximum Security Prison, where I have been asked to host a special event for Valentine's Day. My audience is a mass of convicted men. And my stage is the prison grounds where I have come to speak. The words continue to pierce and crucify me. Maybe because I know them so well, and it's not my voice that has betrayed my smile, but my very spirit.
“...and if have not love, I am just as good as a sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.”
That's all it is good for—this voice...if the love is missing. What was the original word used in that verse? Charity. That was the original meaning of charity: Love, in its pure, unselfish form. The kind of love that compels us to use our voices for good, for speaking the truth. The kind of love that calls us, not necessarily to deny that we inside our human shells, are selfish..but that, with this kind of love, we can overcome such a weakness and with this love, make it be a strength.
I feel ashamed of myself. Here I am, on stage where they expect me...with the smile that they expect of me...with the voice which they have come to hear. And I feel the pain of failure rising in my throat. My eyes shift down to the program list in my hand which I am supposed to recite.
“And have not love...”
That is what's wrong with me today. I have got it all wrong. I have been so deluded. I have been so selfish. And all I sound like is an ugly, annoying, tinkling brass. Or a sharp fingernail scraped against a blackboard, maybe.
In my heart, I am sorry. The speech by the gang commander is over, and the microphone is now my charge. Struggling to remove it form its stand, I bring it closer to my lips to speak. But before I do, a second to whisper in my heart a prayer.
“Lord, let me not do this for myself or even for those who came out here to hear me speak. Just let me do it for You...because Your Love constrains me.”
I do not know if my prayer can reconcile with my former selfish feelings, but it seems to open up my heart a little more to the sun that is now shining down on the stage. I think I can do this. Not with my own weak heart, but with His. Not with my own futile love, but with His. And not powered just by my own voice, but with His, now, and for the next six hours.
“Sound check...mike test...Happy Valentines day to everyone here. If you don't have a Valentine today, I'll be yours!...You guys ready for a rock concert???!!!”
The mass of men cheer, their arms go up in celebration and approval. The band takes stage as their riffs kill any other sound on the grounds.
No...I don't have to be here, but I want to, now. Because I want to love today, with the kind of love the 13th Chapter of Corinthians meant it to be.
by Nyx Martinez
It's not that I don't want to be here today. It's just that I feel a little bit selfish. Can't I be allowed that feeling? Or must I always be what they expect of me? The smiling one; the sacrificial one; the charitable one? I don't have to be here today...I've done “charity” so much in my life. Possibly more times than I can count on my fingers even if I did it a hundred times over.
And I love the stage. I am a natural performer. Always have been. I am aware of the crowd—the throngs who have come out in the heat of the sun today, expecting to see me talk. Expecting to see me smile. Hoping that I can offer them a word of encouragement, something to brighten their dim circumstances, something that will make that smile jump from my face to theirs.
But...I don't really feel like smiling today. My voice is fine, but I don't really feel like using it. It's a good voice; it's a strong voice. It's been trained to settle crowds and announce rock stars. The same way that it has been trained to act, and to modulate a smile.
And so I climb the stage, saluting the audience as I speak. My words are crisp; my voice is strong. I need no practice. Like I said, I've done this many times before.
Then again, I've done charity so many times before, too. It's what people come to expect of me. They want to know that I can be counted on to be there...to speak, to sing, or to take center stage, just to see these people happy. They want to know they can count on me.
But I'm not giving them much today. I can barely get myself to go up there anyway. I can barely crack my lips into a smile, because I know that my eyes betray myself.
I still take center stage, because that's what they all expect of me. And no, I cannot let them down.
Five minutes into the introduction and I'm getting warmed up. The crowd has drawn thicker. Curiosity is aroused by the sound of my foreign accent. All eyes are on me now....close to a thousand men, waiting to hear me speak. My voice does not tremble at all. It is steady, while my heart is not. It is firm, while my spirit is downcast.
“What is wrong with me today?” I wonder. “Why does my smile so betray my heart? Why does the sun feel like it's blinding my soul?”
Our guest speaker takes the mike. I will be on this stage for the next seven hours, so I don't mind. He begins to lead the invocation, and since it is a dialect I am not fluent in, my mind wanders a bit.
The sky begins to glow overcast, and I feel that greyness creep up on me again inside. It slightly rumbles, and I feel that, too. I think of other things; of places I would rather be...the words I hear spoken by the other voice on the mike become a blur, until one English line is spoken, capturing my rapt attention and drawing the truth up into me like I have never heard it before:
“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels...” the voice, in its broken English, recites the well-known verse, the one I quoted so often in just a ramble. And it awakens me to where I am. The middle of a Maximum Security Prison, where I have been asked to host a special event for Valentine's Day. My audience is a mass of convicted men. And my stage is the prison grounds where I have come to speak. The words continue to pierce and crucify me. Maybe because I know them so well, and it's not my voice that has betrayed my smile, but my very spirit.
“...and if have not love, I am just as good as a sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.”
That's all it is good for—this voice...if the love is missing. What was the original word used in that verse? Charity. That was the original meaning of charity: Love, in its pure, unselfish form. The kind of love that compels us to use our voices for good, for speaking the truth. The kind of love that calls us, not necessarily to deny that we inside our human shells, are selfish..but that, with this kind of love, we can overcome such a weakness and with this love, make it be a strength.
I feel ashamed of myself. Here I am, on stage where they expect me...with the smile that they expect of me...with the voice which they have come to hear. And I feel the pain of failure rising in my throat. My eyes shift down to the program list in my hand which I am supposed to recite.
“And have not love...”
That is what's wrong with me today. I have got it all wrong. I have been so deluded. I have been so selfish. And all I sound like is an ugly, annoying, tinkling brass. Or a sharp fingernail scraped against a blackboard, maybe.
In my heart, I am sorry. The speech by the gang commander is over, and the microphone is now my charge. Struggling to remove it form its stand, I bring it closer to my lips to speak. But before I do, a second to whisper in my heart a prayer.
“Lord, let me not do this for myself or even for those who came out here to hear me speak. Just let me do it for You...because Your Love constrains me.”
I do not know if my prayer can reconcile with my former selfish feelings, but it seems to open up my heart a little more to the sun that is now shining down on the stage. I think I can do this. Not with my own weak heart, but with His. Not with my own futile love, but with His. And not powered just by my own voice, but with His, now, and for the next six hours.
“Sound check...mike test...Happy Valentines day to everyone here. If you don't have a Valentine today, I'll be yours!...You guys ready for a rock concert???!!!”
The mass of men cheer, their arms go up in celebration and approval. The band takes stage as their riffs kill any other sound on the grounds.
No...I don't have to be here, but I want to, now. Because I want to love today, with the kind of love the 13th Chapter of Corinthians meant it to be.
