Stone-cold bright

 

Maundy Thursday was grey and grisly until evening, when the sun drove out the heavy clouds. Good Friday dawned clear and stone-cold bright.

We gathered early at the appointed spot, a small band of believers braving the early-morning chill to follow the Cross in silence through the streets of Banchory. Sharp shadows etched themselves on the raised gardens we passed: the crisp outline of the cross, borne by two pilgrims, the bobbled caps and bent heads of those following, quiet and reflective.

Pigeons cooed; songbirds sang their spring melodies; later in the walk, crows cawed out their mocking noises. An engine idled loudly, an empty car warming up but at that moment going nowhere. Other vehicles passed, paused, accelerated, drivers ignoring us or staring, perplexed or pitying. Or indifferent.

On we went, stopping at appointed places to take it in turn reading out the dreadful story of Jesus’ betrayal, arrest, ‘trial’, condemnation and execution. Solemnly we trudged on, now through the muddy grass of the park, dog-walkers moving away from us. When we stopped for that reading, one person, finding nowhere to rest the wooden cross, wrapped his arms round it and leaned in, holding it upright as it held him.

Moving again, I noticed the grey and balding heads in front of me. A band of friends, many with whom we have journeyed for decades, encouraging, consoling, comforting, and rejoicing with. We have walked on the high roads and the muddy plains with many of these dear friends. In Jesus we have wrapped our arms round each other and leaned in, holding each other upright when strength ebbed.

So blessed are we.

I noticed a couple of fingerprints of wispy cloud smudged on the blue skies above, underlined by the exclamation point of the vapour trail of an unseen aircraft.

Judas historically bears the blame for dobbing Jesus in, but it was my silence, my selfishness, my loveless indifference that Jesus forgave as the nails were hammered into his wrists and his ankles. ‘Father, forgive them: they don’t know what they are doing.’

Lord, I still don’t know what I’m doing. But my heart swells with gratitude as I reflect on the certain hope I have, that you who began a good work in me will not let that lapse. I wrap my arms round that cross today and lean in, desperately sorry for my own treachery.

Without your love, Lord, we are lost. It’s a mystery why you love us so much, but a mystery I am content to accept without fully understanding. So grateful. So grateful.