“so now I look down from the roof, casually, & my heart stops, because I see that it is him. He is reeling; the cross is heavy, & the soldiers are trying to humiliate him. The crowd, packed into the street below are avid, eager, greedy as people can be greedy for the shame of others..& suddenly I am angry. Anger can give you courage; I am so angry that I do not think it through. He should not be made ashamed, & I will do what I have to do, they can like it or lump it. I go down the steps & out onto the street into the crowd. I want to give him something so at the doorway I pick up the jar of water, there for arriving guests. I will give him a drink, I think. I push through the crowd to get close to him, as I pushed through it before. The cavalcade has stopped for some reason & he is leaning on the cross, exhausted, his head hanging. I offer him a drink, & slowly he looks up, turns towards me & focuses; he has a look of mild curiosity as though he was struggling to see me, perhaps to remember where he has seem me before. But that does not matter, I feel slightly sick. Someone for some sick joke has rammed a coronet of thorns on his head & it is bleeding. Someone has spat in his face. His hands are tied so he cannot wipe it; spit blood & sweat, & probably tears, have clotted & dried so he cannot see properly. He is so weary, he just stands there. A drink is not enough; I take the hem of my veil & dip it in the water jar & start to wash his face, very carefully, very tenderly. After he healed me, after the seven days of waiting after the satisfaction of the prying, dirty-minded Rabbi, I went to the mikvah & they washed me. Women with strong tender careful hands washed me. I had not been touched for twelve years, & the washing was so sweet & strong. I want to pass onto him all that sweetness & strength. He took away my uncleanness & I want to take away his. Despite the restless & uncomfortable crowd, who do not like this, despite the pushing of the soldiers who seem just to want to get on with the job, he & I stand together there in a peaceful silent pace & I wash his face. Not his mother or his lover; just a woman to whom he owes nothing, a woman without needs or demands, whose feelings he does not have to take care of.. that woman washes his face. ..& when it is done, when I have washed & dried that poor broken face, I put my hand on his shoulder. I am planning to say something helpful, an encouraging word, though I do not know what that would be. Then, quite abruptly, he leans forward & drops his head into the hollow where my neck meets my shoulder, where his face is hidden from the crowd. I am solid for him, & suddenly feel his whole body relax against mine. I take the weight & the pain, & I know in my body that he is comforted. Just a few seconds..& then the soldiers move in, rough & determined. They push me away, he turns to his heavy work, & goes on up the hill. I don’t know if he recognised me. I doubt it, really. One woman in a crowd, over a year ago, one hundred miles north of here; I doubt it. But it doesn’t matter. For one moment, his heavy forehead rested on my shoulder, & I knew in my body that he was consoled, that he was comforted & unashamed. He did not need to know why I had done it, he did not need to know who I was, or remember what he had done for me. It wasn’t a payment of a debt, not in the last count. It was an exchange of gifts.” [the work & prayer of Sara Maitland in her book “Stations of the Cross” the sixth Station; Veronica wipes the face of Jesus]
..a Good Friday like no other.. to see feel & hear it as “an exchange of gifts” “Jesus remember me”. “indeed I promise you.. you.. today you will be with me in paradise” ..to a good thief.. or should it be both thieves?. .to Veronica, to Judas, & to Jesus’ lover.. & now to you & I, seeing our real selves so well in each of this motley crew of followers, Good Friday “an exchange of gifts” ..his life be sure gifted to me..& less sure, more dis-graceful, my life gifted to him.. [Good Friday; Jn 18;1-19;42]