Marie

Mary of Bethany remembers…

Mary of Bethany remembers…

This week, Rev. Gav helped us see this story in a new way as we remember Mary of Bethany anointing the feet of Jesus.

Four years ago, I sat with this scene and wrote this monologue from her view point,

Travel back in time with me to experience this account from Mary’s standpoint. We begin on Good Friday at Golgotha as Mary remembers…
In Mary’s voice

Jesus body is lifeless now. Battered and bloodstained. At least the suffering is over, I think. John is wept uncontrollably as he pulled the nails out of that rough wood. The soldiers tried to stop him, but he ignored them. He couldn’t bear for the hands that had pounded the spikes through the flesh to touch his friend again. I will hear the clang of that hammer until my own death. And the Centurion – the one who had won his cloak—defended John. It was odd. He seemed to be in awe, even calling Jesus the Son of God.

Mother Mary was there, and Mary of Magdala as well. We three Marys—Mary means bitter, you know. “Bitter” we had been named and now we knew why. The bitterness of our horror was the taste of poison on my tongue.

Now Mother Mary weeps and washes his mutilated face with her tears and wipes it dry with the edge of her robe. She cradles him, rocking back and forth, humming as if he is a babe in arms again and she could soothe him. The sweet odour of his blood and the stench of his sweat lingers in our nostrils.

Mary of Magdala can’t bear to look at him. She is prostrate and I shiver at the sound of her keening.

Me? I am kneeling at his feet, the sharp rocks slicing into my knees. The physical pain is welcome. It mirrors the breaking of my heart. I remove my head covering and unbind my hair. I wipe his feet with my dark curls feet bloody, shredded from the beatings and the long stony road to the hill of death, the garbage dump where the fires are never quenched. And the fresh wounds – those cruel wounds on his feet. I wash them with my tears.

I have washed these feet once before, and the memory of that night rushes back, overwhelming me and for a moment I shelter in those memories.

I can see myself. I am rushing to put on a clean robe. Martha and I have been working all day –scouring the kitchen garden for the best of our produce. Me, shopping in the market for the freshest vegetables, while Martha kneaded loaf after loaf of bread. Jesus is coming, and all his friends with him. And they do love to eat, those men!

Joy – pure joy – I can hear Lazarus scurrying about, preparing the eating room with its low table and reclining couches. Oh – to see him well and strong, to have him back from the dead. I still get chills down my spine when I see him. How can we ever thank Jesus? This small celebration seems so inadequate.

The jar is there, on the shelf. I still don’t know why I bought it. I saw it in the market, and I felt compelled. And not to just buy it, but to buy it now. There was an urgency that puzzled me. Why? Why, in light of Lazarus’ return from the dead, would I buy more nard, more death spice? Am I afraid he will die again? NO – that’s not it, yet I knew I HAD to buy it. And it had to be the best. It was so costly, it took a year’s wages for a labourer my entire dowry. I hold the jar for a moment. The alabaster is cool and smooth in my hands. It is a work of art in itself, crafted by a master for sure. There is not a single flaw in its beauty. I slip the lid open a little and the fragrance fills my room, and I feel hot tears on my cheeks. Why am I weeping? I don’t know.

Enough! There is much to be done and Martha needs help. She doesn’t fuss about it like she used to. She has grown accustomed to the times when I get lost in deep thought. Now she smiles gently and quiets her bustling. I am thankful for that. It is easier to help her now. I can do it with joy in the serving instead of resentment. Yet another gift Jesus has given us.

I can hear them coming now, singing Psalms as they approach! Carefully I place the jar on the shelf and run to meet them.

Dinner has been a great success. It is getting dark now and the oil lamps give off their gentle fragrance. The yeasty aroma of fresh bread and fine roasted lamb and rosemary still fill the air. It seems like everyone is talking at once. I can make out at least three conversations as I gather plates and begin to tidy up. Some of them are talking about a cursed fig tree. The others are excited about Jesus driving moneychangers out of the temple – now that one may really get him in trouble! The cacophony of voices makes me smile.

Lazarus looks a little uncomfortable though. Everyone reclining close to him wants to know what it was like being dead. What did it feel like for Lazarus to come to life? Was it a sudden awakening, or a slow sensation of life seeping back into fingers and toes – like when your leg goes to sleep and tingles as it “wakes up”? Typically, Lazarus tries to deflect the questions. I think it was an experience so deep he has not yet formed words to speak of it. Perhaps he never will. Maybe it is like when Jesus looks at me sometimes. Something that feels like Eden passes between us, but if I try to capture it in words, it slips away like sand through my fingers. It is too sacred to share.

Everybody is talking at once, except my Jesus. He is oddly silent, lost, it looks like, in some deep contemplation. Of what? I don’t know.

But now he glances up and looks at me and I am drowning in the pain I see in his eyes. Suddenly, I know why I bought that alabaster jar. He is looking at Death and it is killing him. I bolt, running down the hall, finding the jar.

I stand in the doorway to the eating place. Do I dare do this? The room is full of men, all reclining on their couches by the low table. They will be horrified, but I sat with the men before, learning with them. I have broken that barrier. But this? Then he turns his head and looks at me again and the wave of pure love that engulfs me presses me forward. Before anyone can stop me, I am at his feet, on my knees.

I break the fragile neck of the jar and the fragrance of nard fills the house. Silence descends like a shroud and I suppose everyone is looking at me, but I don’t see them. I am lost in those eyes, pools of love and pain and foreboding.

I take the callused feet in one hand and with the other I pour out the spiced oil – all of it, emptying the jar. The ointment drenches his feet and spills on the fine cushion beneath them and runs down to the stone floor. There is enough here to anoint a whole dead body but no matter – I pour it all out. I tear off my head covering and loose my hair and knead those blessed feet with shaking hands and my dark curls. The ointment and the tears and the love are all poured out as I sob. The whispers begin and then I hear Judas’ disdainful voice. No surprise.

Jesus turns away and pierces Judas with a glance. The room falls silent again. Jesus’ tone is harsh. “Leave her alone.”

Reaching down, he puts a gentle finger under my chin and lifts my face so I can see his. And then he speaks tenderly what I now know. “She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

Perhaps I have been in my reveries for a long time, perhaps only a moment. Time seems bent somehow, but now I am back, as the bitter wind whips my unbound hair, and dries the tears on my face. Gently, Nikodemus touches my shoulder. “It is almost dusk,” he says. “We need to carry the Jesus to the tomb before dark.” I know this. The Sabbath looms and the precious body must be entombed before sundown.

Quietly, he peels my fingers from the wounded feet, then moves to Mother Mary. She gasps as he loosens her embrace and begins to wrap the body in a white cloth. Blood stains the cloth before he finishes wrapping Jesus in it. He will honour this body as best he can, I know, but there is no time to cleanse and anoint this lifeless figure before the Sabbath. The final indignity. To be entombed but not cleansed and prepared.

But then I realize it. I stand, stunned by the revelation. Jesus knew, didn’t he. He knew and perhaps, in some tiny way, I did too. Perhaps, in some way, my act of devotion comforted him. I don’t know. I hope so. It is my only hope. He raised Lazarus from death, but who can raise him when we have killed the one who is life itself?