asked me to write part of holy week told from the perspective of a ‘minor character.’  I chose the

Caravaggio painted his face onto Peter's

woman in the Chief Priest’s court.  Though they said they like it a lot, the language was apparently too graphic.  I hope you’re not offended.  (inspired by Mark 14:66-70)

I guess you don’t like my Lord.  You’re one of the ones who claims that Nazarene is your Lord.  My master isn’t just a Rabbi.  He’s the CHIEF PRIEST.  He arrested your master.

If you don’t like him, I don’t like you.

Go to hell.  You and your master can go to hell.  I saw your friend.  He has a name…what is it?  (I’m always forgetting names).  PETER!  Your master called him Peter.  Kepha?  Kepha!  Ha! Your Rabbi called him Kepha!  I saw your “rock.”  He was in my master’s courtyard.  Scared little piece of shit.  He doesn’t think that we know who belongs in our master’s courtyard and who doesn’t?  Galileans, dogs with names don’t belong in my master’s courtyard—certainly not a name like Kepha.  A dog is a dog, a bitch is a bitch in the courtyard of my master.  I know who I am, I always know who I am: a servant girl of the Chief Priest.

I know who your Kepha is and that tells me everything about your master.    Three times, three times, three times!  Three times he denied your Nazarene!  “You were with Jesus, the man from Nazareth,” I said.  I told the others, loud enough so he could hear me, “This man is one of them.”  He spoke like a Galilean, but I didn’t need to know that.  I saw him just a couple days ago.  He couldn’t have been happier to be with your Jesus.  He walked into Jerusalem, strutting like an eleven year-old boy who thinks he’s a man.  “Certainly you are one of them,” I pointed my finger and stared into the eyes of a rock.

And the rock broke.

He barked curses!  “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he whined.

My master would have whipped me for that!  My master would have…he wouldhave carved Chief Priest into my skin so that everyone would know who I belonged to.  I always know who my master is:  the Chief Priest.  If your Jesus had lived through the day, I can only imagine what he would have done to his “Peter.”  If my master dies, I die with him.

What’s my name?  Why would you ask that? I am a servant girl of the Chief Priest.  That’s all you need to know! That’s all that anyone knows.

My mother named me—she must have.  I asked him once, the Chief Priest.  I was four.  “Do I have a name?”  He chuckled at me.  “The bitch wants a name!” he exclaimed to the man next to him.  “You are my servant, “ he said kindly.  “Now get to your chores,” he said less kindly.   He wouldn’t give me a name.

When I am sick, I attend to my work.  I am a servant girl of the Chief Priest.

When my father died, I attended to my work and not his body.  I am a servant girl of the Chief Priest.

When my master forgets his purse, I give whatever I have to him as he needs it.  I am a servant girl of the Chief Priest.

When my sister’s master became a rival of the Chief Priest, I hated my sister.  I am a servant girl of the Chief Priest.

If I don’t do what he says, I die.  You should know that.  Your Jesus knows that.  No matter what, I am a servant girl