Mary and Martha on Holy Saturday

There was an ugly silence coming from the kitchen. I could tell that Martha was upset, she usually ends up there when she is. But this was different. 

Today was the Passover sabbath. We should have been celebrating- a day of rest, with family and friends. We had been expecting Jesus.  

But earlier in the week, it had all gone wrong. Lazarus had come in the house to tell us he’d heard Jesus had been arrested, and he was going to find out more. When he came back, I could see that something was wrong, but I never anticipated this. 

‘He’s dead’. 

‘How? Why?’

‘Crucified.’

I couldn’t bear to ask Lazarus any more - his face was grey and his face was working horribly. He disappeared out again and we didn’t see him at all the next day.

Crucifixion was terrible. None of us ever wanted to see it, but since the victims died along major roads, it was impossible to miss. I think that was the point. The worst thing was how long they took to die - I remember seeing one man on the way in to Jerusalem one morning, who was still alive on the way back home in the evening. I hoped that at least for Jesus it had been quick.

Now he was gone, the life and joy he brought with him was also gone. All the hope, all the certainty of that eternal life had evaporated. The world felt grey and dark - if the resurrection could die, what would happen to us?

I slowly realised I could hear some noises in the kitchen. Maybe Martha was ready to talk? 

Martha had her back to me in front of the oven, and when she turned around, I was horrified. She was filthy! Covered in dust and charcoal - even in her hair!

‘What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like?’

‘But Martha, it’s the sabbath! That’s work! Torah forbids it!’

Martha had turned back to the oven, but at this she whirled around and slammed the wooden utensil in her hand down on the table.

‘Who cares? What does any of that matter now he’s gone!’

I retreated out of the kitchen as the ashes of many years were dumped onto the floor.

I’d fallen asleep upstairs when Martha woke me later. She was cleaner now, and there was a fierce light in her eyes. 

‘We need to make spices for his burial.’ We spent the rest of the day preparing them - after Lazarus had died, we had bought far too much, so has them all ready.

Martha woke me up the next morning while it was still dark. We sat together on my bed and watched the pinky dawn spread across the horizon. Then we picked up the spices and left.

On the way, I saw others of his followers walking towards the tomb. All of us, looking for a little closure, a little comfort, a little peace in doing what we could for him. 

We wondered how we’d move the stone. I wondered how I’d get Martha home when she could do no more.

We all felt in some way, that the end was near. 

📷 “Holy Saturday” - mixed media on board by @linearlinnea from #GodonMute: Engaging the Silence of Unanswered Prayer