Monologues for Men
(free for students & auditions)

"The Prophet Preaches"
From the play "The Prophet Freeman"

By G. L. Horton
copyright © 2000 Geralyn Horton

J Freeman Connors, an ordinary Midwestern farm hand before he was sent from Above (a UFO?) to save the righteous remant of rural America, preaches to his Chosen People.


Brothers and sisters, I know you must be asking yourselves, and wishing you had the nerve to ask me, what's that funny looking fella doing up there?  What makes him think he can preach?  Well, I don't blame you.  I can't exactly make out how it happened, myself.  Certain things have been made known to me, about how all the olden days and these latter days fit together, and I got to try to make these things known unto you..

Y' see, my friends, in the garden, ---- that is, before the Sons of Cain got a tiny bit smart and decided to cut themselves out from the other animals----  there was no problem. Adam picked a little fruit, stole some eggs,  maybe got a rabbit if it wasn't fast enough.  Hundred thousand years or so, Adam's son figured out that if he piled up a bunch of nuts,  there'd be days he wouldn't have to go out and chase rabbits. Now for a squirrel with nuts, this's not a dangerous discovery. But Satanic man!  Before you can say Sodom and Babylonia, he's piling it on, piling it up.  Under the influence of usury, Cain's boy has got his fences and his chattel, and he's looking at his neighbor with covetousness, wanting to add him and his to the pile.

(The PROPHET arranges objects on the lectern for a show & tell illustration of his points)

 Now the universal design so far had been for synergy.  Input-output: a stable system.  But that's not enough. The sons of Cain want it organized so's it's all output, and Man won't have to give back.  Not even his used up old dead carcass. He saves, he hoards. Now once he's learned to save, he figures he can BE saved: live safe and live forever! From Pharaoh on down, everybody's got to scratch  just to keep from being turned into the next fella's commodity. Grab onto that water, that energy!   Sweat. Slaves. Gunpowder. Oil. Nuclear. And the condensed kind, the false coin of  Caesar/Mammon that the bankers call money:

(PROPHET takes a handful of $100.00 bills out of his pocket, displays it to the congregation's astonishment, crumples and squeezes it until it vanishes)

The usurers squeezed that life-energy into paper money, and that's how they put the squeeze on you.  Bankers and politicians, taxes and interest, brokers and hucksters, always with their hands out for more.  Drain the life-blood right out of the farmer, the carpenter, the honest businessman. Get their hooks into oil and gas, too: all a poor man's got left is the labor of his hands, cause the bloodsuckers tap off all that God-given energy!

For awhile the bloodsuckers fool you, hire liars like our State Rep. Busick, there: try to look like they're on your side. Make you pretty speeches about how you're the backbone, you're the breadbasket. But when you're in trouble, what do they do?  Sell you fertilizer, sell you pesticides. On credit. You get a big crop: three times the size the crop your  grandpop had! Six times.  But all along the soil's wearing out,  and the pollution's getting stronger. Where you gonna sell that big crop, anyways? The sons of Cain own em all-- dealers, government--. What can you get for it?

(the $100.00 bills reappear. FREEMAN tears them into little pieces and throws them into the air to illustrate his point)

Don't worry, my friends-- that was a trick. Nothing of value there: just blank paper.  I mean "bank" paper. Worse'n toilet paper.  Contracts not worth the printing on them!  See, a real contract, a covenant like God made with Abraham, is a promise to give value.  On both sides.  Your bankers, your tyrant oligarchical government-- never intend to keep that promise.   If you could see through their tricks,  when you got that so-called loan you'd tear it up and throw it away.  Like I did. It's all a plan to get your land. And when they get it all, what do you think'll be the price of bread then?  By the time the government's done, there won't be a real farm left!  Be one big farm-factory.  Maybe two.  Republican and Democrat.

They got experts on the payroll, tell you it's nobody's fault. Economic forces. But economics isn't a force of nature, like gravity. It's a force of Man, like a gun.  Somebody loads it. Somebody aims it.  Somebody like you? Well, so far the law will let you protect yourself--- put up one hell of a fight.

You see, friends, we were put here to prove ourselves fit. Fit to survive, fit to inherit the earth and all its abundance, fit for the galaxies in all their glory. We failed before the time of the flood, when we went whoring after false gods. We failed in the Old Countries, when we bowed our heads to tyrants.  But the Power that watches never gave up on us. We were shown the way out, shown how to sail to this promised land, land of the  second chance. Land of the free. Home of the brave. Last best hope of mankind. Once America is purified, once we show that we can live together as family, in liberty and law, then the sky's the limit, and we're home free! Children, we're free. Free cause we got a home beyond the stars!


Well, little lady, if you want to talk to me, don't call me "mister".  Never could think of myself as a mister. To me, "Mister" is a man in a suit, probably works for a bank or the government. Or one of them Officers and Gentlemen they call themselves. Now, I never much cared for my Christian name, which is why I shortened it to "J", and "Conners" ain't any great shakes as a name, either, even without the "Mr." in front of it. My enemies call me all sorts of names, but my friends call me Freeman  If they want to be formal, it's Prophet Freeman, kind of like a title. But that only applies if you go along with it. And I don't expect you to go along with it, least not at first. Won't make sense to you. But don't you worry about that, little lady. Ol' J. Freeman's got all the time in the world! You understand, I don't give interviews. I don't offer comments. I'm willing to talk to you, on the say-so of these good people, cause they claim that you're honest. Then if you listen to me, really listen,  give what I say honest consideration, you won't be writing any story. The more you write, the more you get wrong. That's the nature of it. Knowledge goes from soul to soul, but words--!  You a Christian woman? You believe that your Redeemer liveth? That though worms destroy this body, yet in your flesh you shall see God? That's what Christian means. Isn't it? Yeah. Well, the priests and reverends are big on Faith. They want you to go ahead and swallow their mumbo-jumbo, put your money in the plate, put your money in the mail, turn off your God-given common sense.  But the twelve apostles, the original Christ-followers, they didn't need faith. Cause they saw with their own eyes what the Son of  Man was and what he could do.  Now, you've probably heard people say I work miracles.  Or more, say I claim to work miracles.  Pay them no mind.  I don't "claim".  That's words. Words are cheap.  Woodrow, here, tells me  you made a trip to the library, checking up on me.  (chuckles) Oh, I'm an easy target.  Old, ugly, poor.  Dirt behind my ears and under my fingernails. Only went to school to sixth grade.  But hell, Jesus was a carpenter. Give the scribes and Pharisees fits, that did!  You say you'll write the truth about me, and the truth can only do good   If only it were that easy! I'd like to say, just spread the news!  That's gospel, sweetheart: even bad news is good news! But as an experiment-- (takes some index cards  out of his pocket) All right. We're coming up onto the millennium.  These are crisis times. Signs are all around, if you know your prophecy. John, and Daniel---  All of them!  The divine is always trying to get through to  pig headed men!  Course, it's not entirely sinfulness.  There's the language barrier. What language does the divine speak?  None of em.  Speaks to me as was spoke of old, in symbols and  flashes of light.  And then I have to turn around and translate :  (points to card)  for myself, you see, as well as those  potato heads out there in Disneyland.   Revelations. This mind that's inside  me, it's no more like the human mind that J. Freeman Conners was born with than a computer is.   But the divine -- all they got to work with here is the mind and body of old  J. Freeman Conners: which is no great shakes-- you can ask anybody who went to school with him.  Or knew him in the days  when he was worse'n the lowest bum in the gutter, wrecked and wretched in body and soul!  But if the divine wants to snatch such a brand from the burning --  Then,  in the circumstance that's given unto me,   I do the best I can. Like the Prophets of old.  Which is a hell of a lot better than the damn politicians and Pharisees can do with all their high I Q!  It comes through me, the power and the glory, --distorted by this envelope I wear, of course.  But worse if it goes into writing. Or television!  That's the very worst!  Those tablets of Sinai, they were a terrible  mistake, but nothing to what happens when they're read out over the Christian Cable! Jesus, Socrates, the Buddha, they never wrote down a thing. Wouldn't let anybody draw their picture, make a graven image. The Post, the Times, the Network news, they aren't knowledge.  They're corporate instruments of mind control. It all fits in, everything that happens, one damn thing after another. Follow the sports to the funnies through the ads to the stocks and the  real text: m-o-n-e-y.   Only section of the paper that gets bigger. What's the human use of a newspaper? To hold in front of you while you're sitting on the trolly car, so's you won't have to look at a naked soul!   Train your puppy. Wrap your garbage. Screen between a man and wife at breakfast.. So-called objective reporters--they know not what they do. You understand what I'm saying?  When we try to warn you where that that path is leading? The beginning of wisdom.  When you're not sure of what you used to think you had all figured out. Next thing,  you may find you've had a revelation.  But don't pin it down.  Don't turn it into lying words. The letter killeth, the spirit giveth life.  How can you possibly describe the Upper World, when it is not a place, has no name and  no dimension. But hear me, not words but beyond that: see me, not my physical body but the soul what looks out of my eyes-- maybe you'll catch a glimpse of it.

As I was saying, Marilee:  the essence of  communication is soul to soul. Words, and sometimes thoughts, they just get in our way.


Who else remembers? In our blood we know that we are true sons of the earth, brothers to the animals. You see, the Upper Ones may be far above us, but we're not like bacteria, not like bugs to them.The ancient Egyptians, when  they got a message from the Upper Beings, pictured that as come from a beast. Or a beast head, on a human body. Sure! That's how we are to each other, mixed but not corrupted, and the famer is the one kind of man today who remembers.

You tell the financier who runs agribusiness that the cow is sacred, like unto the divine,  he thinks you're loony. A cow's just a machine for  turning grass into milk. Not even grass anymore. Silage. Wood pulp.  The ground up brains and guts of other cows, and pigs, and sheep, putrid with the disease of forced cannibalism Only a man who remembers can fight them.  The farmer's a man of peace, until he is pushed off the land and cut off from both beast and God. Then it's the time of battle, and all the angels are ranged at his side. The meek can't just lay down and expect to inherit the earth. Not any more. Not at this time of crisis.  For the sake of all creation,  we got to study war!  Study it better than God's enemies. Because we are on the watchtower.  The whole universe is waitting for us to pass over, pass out of our greed and our selfishness, and into the Better Kingdom, the milk and honey land of green pastures. There the good shepherd will feed his flock, and all the sons of men rejoice exceedingly.


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