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St Peter’s Church Bredhurst Good Friday: Mary’s Story |
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Notices and |
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Good Friday – |
Not a sermon but a discussion document Divorce and our policy |
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Good Friday 2001
The
feast was a joyous occasion. Martha
was in her element. Jesus and his
followers were there. The friends were
excited. The great day was here. Jesus
would be hailed as King and Messiah. Mary
lurked in the shadows, her mind a whirl of confusion. Her brother's death had broken her. Jesus
raising him from the dead had thrilled but terrified her. It was all too much. She longed to sit at
his feet again, and listen to his gentle words. When
Lazarus died Mary had run to Jerusalem to buy a jar of perfume to anoint her
brother, but Martha had already wrapped the body by the time she
returned. The jar was still in the
house. Why
she did it, Mary was never sure. Some
sense that her failure to prepare her brother's body would be repeated with
her Master? She
slipped out and fetched the jar. When
she returned the party was louder than ever.
The wine was flowing freely; there were more conversations than guests
though Jesus looked subdued. She
cracked the neck of the jar on the door lintel and walked over to him, knelt
behind his reclining body and tipped some of the oil into her hand. She let it flow through her fingers onto
his head; it ran down over his face and neck.
He
turned and looked at her. Tears
streamed down her face. She was seized
with a sudden passion, pulled back the hem of his robe and tipped the jar
over his feet. The precious ointment
drained into the earthen floor; she frantically scooped it back onto his
feet, but that only made them dirty.
She shook her head and her long dark hair fell over the Master's
feet. She wiped them with the towel of
her hair. A
deathly hush had fallen on the room.
Then they started on her. A
hubbub of complaint and anger, but Jesus sat up. He protected her from their cries. He acknowledged what she had done. He called it beautiful. He took her oil-drenched hands in his. Oil dripped from His hands. The perfume filled the room. And the
passion was over. It
was what she had feared. He had
arrived in triumph, but it all petered out and the Roman justice machine had
run its course. She
crept to a rocky outcrop behind the place of execution. He had a crown which fell off. A soldier picked it up, letting the thorns
slip between his fingers, then thrust it hard on Jesus' head. The thorns cut deep and the blood flowed
down his face and neck. A sudden
passion seized the soldiers and they pulled off his garments and thrust him
down on the wood. A
nail was driven through his feet and the precious blood drained into the
earth. The dirt raised by the
hammering fell on his feet. Mary
longed to wipe them clean. She shook
her head, and her hair flowed round her eyes, shielding them from the
scene. A
deathly hush fell. Then shouts of
rage, of mocking, of laughter filled the air as the cross thudded into its
socket. Mary collapsed, stunned by the
horror of the moment. A
cold wind brought her to her senses.
It was dark, but she could see Him.
Surely he was looking at her?
Had he remembered her? He was
speaking, crying out. She stretched
out her hands wanting to touch him.
Blood dripped from his hands, and the changing wind blew a faint smell
of perfume towards her. The passion
was over. |
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