Good Friday 2014

We left the disciples yesterday in the Garden of Gethsemane,  they slept on the hard ground, the dust chilled and settled for the night, inviting them to rest. Today we meet Peter in the Courtyard of the house of the High Priest. He looks at his feet – they are dirty again, and still speckled with the blood which he had shed when he drew his sword. What else was he to do – they were attacking Jesus – and especially after Jesus had said he would deny Him – Peter was not about to deny anyone, he was fighting to the end.

Except the end seemed to be a different one to the glorious battle he had imagined. Sitting in the baked courtyard, surrounded by all sorts of folk, laughing and singing he felt utterly alone.

Jesus, meanwhile, is questioned and the quiet dust of the night turns through these hours into the burning angry dust of the crowd. Jesus has become more than inconvenient, he is downright dangerous but, even in the moment of their victory, some of the Pharisees notice that this is not what they expected. That fool Peter had drawn his sword, but Jesus had reacted swiftly, somehow healed that man. Enough of this trickery! Jesus must die.

And so the night gives way to day and the dust rises with the heat. Dust mingled with sweat and blood, dirt which grimes itself into Jesus as he falls time and again under the weight of the heavy cross. Peter watches from a distance, his own face still wet with tears – but this is a dangerous place for anyone not fueled by anger, weeping and not spitting and he remains in the shadows.

As the heat of the day breaks they come to Golgotha. The ground here is baked solid, stained from death after death. When gusts blow, earth and humanity swirl together but the spectacle is just too much. Jerusalem is busy at the Festival and this is a good morning of entertainment.

John glances at his feet, remembers last evening, remembers the words and the betrayal. Remembers with a sob the laughter they shared, the light in Jesus eyes, those strange and quiet actions – eat this -  and, although it hurts, looks at Jesus, filthy, broken, naked. He tries to understand how these things go together, if I have done this for you runs through his mind time and again, this too? He wonders. What will become of them now – will the authorities hunt down the twelve, what about the women. Surely a mother may grieve.

Mary pushes through to the foot of the cross, the centurion pushes her roughly but then relents, he knows who she is without her saying it, John follows expecting a blow, but this soldier is different to some, seems to have compassion and John places his arm around the broken woman, her heart broken, she looks as though she had been cut in two.

They watch those final moments, hear strange and wonderful words. Almost feel the last breath as if it were their own. Mary stoops then, her strength spent for a moment, and John holds her, scanning the hilltop for some sense in the moment. The centurion looks almost human, their eyes meet,

“This man was the Son of God,” he says. Just like that, as if it was so obvious. As if that was a gift. He puts a ladder up to the cross and, as he had many times before, places a spear into Jesus side – he is dead and he orders that young soldier, who had been standing and jeering with his friends, to get up there and cut the body down.

The boy looks like he has been stung. Cut him down? But they leave them up there, examples, forget the religious sensibilities, the Romans are in charge.

“Did you hear me,” booms the older man, “cut him down,” more hesitation, “Now.”

John notices then the silence, the sound of the cords being cut and the nails wrenched out. As they hand over the body there is no memory of cleanliness. From the crowd a few familiar faces step forward. They barely notice it is dark now and it will be hours before they realize that the hilltop was now empty  - they would hear rumors about the Temple, about the dead being raised. Silence surrounds the procession to the tomb.

We can imagine the state the disciples were in by the end of this day, plastered in grime and dirt. I wonder what they thought when they finally got to wash – whether they pondered Jesus’ words. It cannot have been about physical dirt after all. There was something else.

Perhaps this is a message of Good Friday – in this day when we immerse ourselves in this story of Jesus we might also remember the grime and dirt of this world, but with hope. However hard we try, we will always pick up dust but we know there is another ending. We look forward .

Today though, let’s look at the world around us through the eyes of those who have witnessed a death, a crucifixion. Perhaps this dusty, grimey place of death offers us a God of possibility for those places and people and times in which we have forgotten what it feels like to be clean and put together.