Today we hear about Jesus' crucifixion from the perspective of a more central character, who found herself on the edges. We too are on the fringes of this story – and are invited to come into its heart this week.
Mary of Nazareth: They keep offering to take me away, the two Marys. They keep trying to get me away from here, from watching him… But I don’t want to go. I don’t know why. There’s some need in me to finish this. He said a moment ago… “It is finished.” Or at least, that’s what they said he said. I couldn’t hear him. His voice was so faint…
But still I can’t leave. Not just yet. It’s not like I ever forgot that there would be an end like this. I always knew that this gift had strings attached – from the beginning, what that old man in the temple said, “And a sword will pierce your heart also.” And the whole way Jesus… just suddenly… was there, in my womb… And his birth, those rough shepherds running to find us, telling us about choirs of angels on the hills… I always knew this was no ordinary child; I always knew he was never mine to keep.
But this… this was not a day I ever thought of, to see my own first son, the flesh of my flesh, there…naked, pinned…. In agony. And yet I don’t want to leave.
And little while ago he spoke again. Oh God, he barely had the strength to lift his voice. He was looking at me. He wanted his mother, and there was nothing I could do for him! But they took me by the arm, Joanna and Mary, they led me closer. I could have touched him – I could have reached out and touched his feet, those feet that once could fit into my hand, whose toes I used to tickle, and he would laugh and laugh like an angel…
But there they were, and a spike… I could have touched him, but I was afraid. Of what? The soldiers? What on earth could they do to me now? But still, I didn’t touch.
He looked at John, his faithful friend. He looked at me. “Dear woman, behold your son,” he said.
“No, you are my son!” I wanted to cry out. “Take him down!” Then he said to John, “Here is your mother.” I thought my heart would stop. Such pain, to be given away, even for my own care… like the time he wouldn’t see us, his brothers and me, when we tried to visit him. He said those who followed him, his disciples, those were his mothers and his brothers now. And I tried to understand… He was never mine to keep.
A soldier spoke a moment ago, a Roman. He said, “I am sure this man was the Son of God.” That’s what that angel said, so long ago in my room, the words are seared into my memory: “The Holy One to be born will be called the Son of God.” So how did this Roman know? Did God tell him too? Maybe it is all true! I believed once and said yes; can I believe again? Maybe God hasn’t finished? Maybe the story isn’t over…
Ah, now John wants to usher me away, already taking up his duties. I am waiting till they take him down. They have promised to take care of the body, these women, his friends, my friends, these Marys. And some important men – Joseph, who gave us the tomb; Nicodemus, another one of the Sanhedrin. They brought the ointments and cloths – 75 pounds of myrrh and aloes, Mary said.
I will help. I will anoint my son’s body with oil and touch his bruised skin one more time, look at his face, now just an empty space, before they put him away in that tomb in the garden. Then I will go home.
What are you being called to let go of today?
What are you being invited to entrust to God?
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