I meditated on the scene where the woman comes in when Jesus is at dinner at the Pharisee’s house.
This time I am her, standing behind an arch with my bottle of oil, waiting. Jesus has his feet under the table and they are all chatting – about transubstantiation and intercommunion, I guess. (priests and ministers). He is listening, not participating. I’m waiting anxiously for my chance. Terrified of walking into a situation where I know I will feel their disapproval like a living thing, but wanting to be defiant all the same. I know I must do this or I’ll regret it. He turns sideways on and turns to look at me – He knows all along that I’ve been there. He beckons to me and says:
Come on then.
I go then, and cry at His feet and rub the oil into them. He lifts my face, wipes away the tears and kisses me gently and says:
That makes me cry even more and I cling to Him, sobbing. He strokes my hair and still says:
I’m then aware of, but I don’t hear the words, that He is in conversation with one of the others at the table. A silence has fallen gradually as they began to notice me. I am aware that He is defending me and telling them off.
The people at the dinner represent the Church and tradition and I am at odds with them. He understands and stands by me.
My companion asked me to also meditate on the passion story. I read it, but it is so devastating to me that I can’t bear to be with it at the moment. I am distancing myself from it.