The Third Word

Mary had been rigid with tension all week. Rumors of plots had eddied around the streets of Jerusalem from the moment Jesus had entered the city at the beginning of the festival week. Everyone was edgy, watchful. There were more Roman soldiers around than usual, too, even for the Passover week when the city teemed with pilgrims and the authorities were extra watchful for signs of unrest or even outright rebellion. And she was sure that there had been temple spies hovering at the corner of her sight every time Jesus went out, even when he didn’t stop to speak to anyone. And of course every time he did stop anywhere a crowd would begin to collect.

Mary had learned her lesson well, though. She couldn’t cling and fuss and fret and ask him to be careful. Jesus had made it more than clear that he was a man grown with work to do, no longer under her authority. So all week long, from a careful distance, she had watched, and worried, and prayed. And now the worst had happened.

She had wept herself dry already that morning and could not have spoken even if there had been anything left to say. Pulsing through her head came only the memory, over and over again, of what Simeon had said in the temple more than 30 years before, when she had been a proud young mother holding a boy-child in her arms. “This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed and a sword will pierce your own soul too. Luke 2:34-35 ...a sword will pierce your soul... a sword will pierce your soul ...

She hadn’t understood. She hadn’t understood. But, Ah, God, now she did: “a sword will pierce your soul.” A sword in the heart would have been easier to bear, the pain would have been over by now, but that would have meant abandoning her son to the cross and she could not leave him even if it meant hearing and seeing every stroke of the whip, every blow of the hammer, the jolt of agony as the crossbar was lifted up and slotted in place on the upright and his full weight fell hard upon the nails. There were black flies clustered in the blood on his hands and feet and back. She felt herself trying to breathe for him. There were others around her but she hardly noticed. “A sword will pierce your own soul too.”

“Woman,” came a voice which barely registered, a hoarse whisper, “Woman.” It didn’t come from the people standing nearby; disbelieving, she looked up and her son’s eyes were open and he was looking at her. “Here is your son.” “Yes, I know,” she thought, “you are my son and there you are and here I am and you are dying and I cannot protect you.” But Jesus’ eyes seemed to say, “No. Listen. Think.” Jesus’ head did not move but his eyes turned to her nephew John and she noticed for the first time that John was suffering as much as she. “Son,” rasped the voice. “Here is your mother.”

And her eyes and John’s met and it seemed as though the pain in her chest lessened somehow and she could breathe again. John moved a step toward her and they both looked up and nodded as if to say, “Yes, we understand.” Jesus closed his eyes.

The Victorian poet Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote,

“God gives us love. Something to love

He lends us, but when love is grown

To ripeness, that on which it throve

Falls off, and love is left alone.”