Holy Week Reflections: Tuesday
Transcription
Susanna grew up in a wealthy family but married a cruel and abusive man named Alexander. He spread rumors about her, ruining her reputation. However, her father continued to support her financially. One day, her friends introduced her to Jesus, who forgave her sins and made her feel loved. She decided to follow him and use her wealth to support him. Eventually, she anointed Jesus with a valuable jar of oil, despite criticism from others. Jesus appreciated her extravagant gift and said it would be remembered. Women of Holy Week, the fourth woman, Susanna's story. My name is Susanna. I grew up in Caesarea Maritima, right on the coast. Our villa looked out over the sea, its bluey-green light stretching as far as the eye could see. As a child, I had no idea how lucky I was. Our family had more than enough money. I had a mother and father who loved me. We lived in an elegant, spacious house. I had beautiful clothes. I wanted for nothing. On the day of my betrothal, my father gave me an alabaster jar. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. White with ripples of a sandy colour that ran over its smooth surface. It was cool and heavy in my hand. My father put his hand affectionately on my cheek. Something precious for the most precious person I know. Open it on a special occasion, dear one. Not long afterwards, I went to live in my husband's equally elegant house in Tiberias, and very soon I learned how lucky I used to be. My husband Alexander was rich, very rich, a courtier of Herod Antipas. On the surface, he was charming. Underneath, he was nasty. Cruelty was a sport for him. He used to boast of his love of tormenting people. He would find their weak spot and press and press until they broke. There was a particular gleam that would shine in his eye then, as though the act of destruction thrilled him. Soon after, he would seek out a new victim and begin again. And so the special occasion for opening my father's precious gift never really came. On days when the spite and the cruelty had worn me down, I would hold its cool smoothness in my hand and remember the time when I had known myself to be loved and cherished. And then I would place it carefully back on the shelf, a memento of a life long gone. Eventually, as I knew it always would, my husband's cruel gaze landed on me. He was bored one day and was looking for a victim. I think he was probably bored of me too. Antipas had just divorced his first wife to marry his half-brother's wife, Herodias. So divorce was all the rage at court. He could just have cast me off, but that wasn't Alexander's style. My weak spot wasn't hard to find. My love for my home and my parents shone through me with every breath. And so he set about making sure that after he'd done with me, I could never go back. He started rumors, claiming that I was an adulteress three times, four times over. People love to believe the worst of someone. And in no time at all, my reputation was in tatters. Branded a sinner, I was cast into the street, unable to go home, lest I bring down shame on my father. What Alexander hadn't counted on in all his cruelty, however, was that others were different. My father couldn't receive me, a proclaimed sinner, back into his house. But he could still take care of me. He sent money via Joanna, the wife of Herod's steward, so I was comfortable. A famous, despised, but wealthy sinner. One day, Joanna and her friend Mary from Magdala came to find me. They had met a man, a rabbi, they said, and I had to meet him. I can't meet a rabbi. I'm a sinner. He'll know. I can't even meet my own father. How can I meet a rabbi? You'll see, said Mary. So I went with them, reluctantly, every nerve in my body ready to flee at the merest hint that I'd been recognized. Mary and Joanna, sensing this, kept a firm grip on my arms, almost carrying me there. When we reached the house where Jesus was, there was a group outside, priests and Levites and Pharisees muttering and gesticulating their outrage. I tensed. It wouldn't be long before they worked out who I was and drove me away. But they were so intent on their outrage that I passed right by without them even noticing. Inside the house, in the gloom, I glanced around in astonishment. This was not what I expected. Gathered there were ordinary people, traders and farmers, daily laborers and, wait, surely not some tax collectors. The crowd willingly moved up to let us in. At that moment, Jesus looked straight at me. Dear child, he said, your sins are forgiven. I opened my mouth to tell him that it wasn't my fault, that Alexander had made it all up. I wanted to tell him all my hurt and my anger and my loneliness, but instead found myself looking into his eyes. As I did, I knew that I was deeply and utterly loved, just as I am. I didn't need to explain. I didn't need to justify anything. I didn't need to be caught in Alexander's web of accusation and cruelty anymore. In an instant, it was gone. I was free. That day, I began following him with the twelve and a number of others, Mary and Joanna included. We used the money we had to help out, to pay for food and lodging when he needed it. Then, a few days ago, we came to Jerusalem. Jesus and the twelve slept out on the sloping banks of the olive groves just below Bethany. Mary and Joanna and a few other women, including Jesus' mother Mary, found rooms in the city. This morning, as I left my room, for some reason I felt in the bottom of my bag and pulled out my most precious possession, the alabaster jar. I stood there, looking at it for a few moments. Just then, two women came out of the next-door room, laughing as they went. I'd met them when we first arrived. One was called Sarah, and like us, had come over from Jerusalem, where she was staying for the festival. The other was Anna. Her face told a tragic tale of loss and grief and loneliness. But today, her eyes danced. She touched my hand, briefly and gently. Love extravagantly, dear, she said, with your whole heart and soul and mind and strength. All of a sudden, I knew the special day had come. I ran up the hill to Bethany, arriving sweaty and out of breath. I had to push my way into the room where they were all dining. Jesus was in the place of honour, so I had to walk past them all to get to him. Before, I'd have been crippled by the shame of it. But not now. Not today. All those years I'd held on to the bottle, I'd never asked myself how to open it. You were meant to use it a few drops at a time, so it must have a lid. Oh, what did it matter? I was going to pour it all out anyway. So I smashed it, a sense of joyful elation bubbling around me as I did. And I poured it out. I poured it all over his head. I poured out my love and my gratitude. I poured out my joy and my freedom. I poured out my very self all over his head. It was an act of absurdity, but I knew that he would understand. The oil ran down his hair and his cheeks, down his beard and his neck, getting in his eyes and his ears as it went. So he had to rub it away with his sleeve, and then his other sleeve. Its pungent smell filled the air. You could hear the muttering swirl around the room as one by one they realized that the jar contained pure nard. Is she mad? That's a year's wages wasted. To think of all the poor she could have helped. Someone should do something. Jesus looked right at me and winked, his enjoyment of what I'd just done written all over his face. Oh, leave her alone, he said. Today she has anointed my body for burial. I tell you, wherever good news is proclaimed in all the world, what she has done will be told in memory of her. I skirted the outside of the room as I headed to the door. A warm glow in my heart. Jesus had received my ridiculous, extravagant gift exactly as I hoped that he might. Better even. He'd said that it would be remembered. He said I would be remembered and talked about forever. I didn't understand what he meant about burial. I've never seen anyone look more alive. But he often said things I didn't understand. I stored it away to think about later. I could hear them talking about me as I left. What was her name again? asked one of them. Don't know. Mary, I think, said another.
