“Maybe we should go looking for this friend,” another disciple suggested.
“No, we need to stay put,” someone else said.
And soon they were arguing. Some felt we should search for this helper person immediately. Some felt we should stay hidden here lest someone else in our group be arrested and put to death. Others, mostly the women, wanted to go wait at the tomb.
We are like small children on our way to Passover, except that we have no parent to lead or watch over us. We are lost, truly lost. Or, more appropriately, we are like sheep. I remember how my son used to compare us to sheep—not a very flattering image, since everyone knows that sheep are the most senseless of all domesticated animals. But then Jesus would explain how he was our shepherd. And we never doubted this, for while he was here he was an excellent shepherd. But now he is gone, and we are very, very lost.
After that incident at Passover, I watched Jesus more carefully. But not so you would notice, for I did not want to make him uncomfortable. Not that he was ever uncomfortable, not to my knowledge anyway. But from time to time I would find myself just staring at him, wondering what this was all about and how Jehovah planned to reveal the true identity of this tall and handsome young man. But one year blended into another and nothing spectacular happened.
To be honest, there was one moment when I wished that Jesus was not God’s Son. I am not proud of this, but it is true. In fact, I briefly entertained thoughts that perhaps I had imagined the whole thing all those many years ago. But, in all fairness, it was a dark day for me when this happened. And I told no one (except for Jehovah, to whom I had to confess and repent) that I was such a selfish woman.
It was on the day that my dear Joseph died. Suddenly I felt so alone and overwhelmed at the prospects of providing for and raising my half-grown children. How my heart ached from missing my Joseph! But at the same time, Jesus was such a comfort to me. No mother ever had such a loyal and tender son. My other children, equally grief stricken over the loss of their father, were in need of reassurance. And it is a mother’s place to offer this condolence to her children.
But when I found myself alone in my garden, quietly grieving as I mourned the loss of my beloved husband, it was Jesus who met me there. And as I looked at my son through eyes blurred with tears, I saw the compassion of the almighty Jehovah on his face. And, like me, Jesus was crying. We embraced, and it was as if I was being held in the arms of my heavenly Father. In my deep need, I wished with all my heart that this fine young man might stay in my home and care for me like that forever. Alas, that was simply my selfishness at work.
However, Jesus did remain in my home for a few more years. How quickly those years passed. Already a fine carpenter, he took over Joseph’s carpentry business, training up his brothers so that they could take over in time. He stepped easily into the role of provider and father figure to his siblings. Not that they always appreciated this or respected his wisdom and grace in dealing with them. But they could not have asked for better. Nor could I.
“Why do not you take a wife, Jesus?” my oldest daughter, Hannah, asked him one day as he was at work. I paused near his workbench, pretending to examine a small stool he had just finished, as I listened to his response.
He planed a piece of wood, going over it again and again until the plank was as smooth as the Sea of Galilee on a day without wind. “I already have my hands full with this family,” he told her with a smile.
“But you should have a family of your own,” she insisted. “There are lots of nice girls in Nazareth who think that Jesus the carpenter is a very good catch.”
He laughed. “You better tell them to cast their nets elsewhere, little sister.”
I suppose I was relieved that Jesus showed no interest in marriage. Although, Hannah was right. There were plenty of young women in our village who thought highly of my son, plenty who would have been pleased to marry the honest, hardworking carpenter who took such good care of his family.
Then suddenly everything changed. It happened when Jesus was around thirty years old. One morning, after seeing my firstborn son nearly every single day of his entire life, he bid me farewell, and, instead of going off to work, he simply walked away.
Something about the determined look in his eye reminded me of the time he had stayed in the temple to attend to his Father’s business. I also knew, thanks to rumors that flew through our region like grassfire, that my dear cousin Elizabeth’s son (who was nearly the same age as Jesus) had just started a very unusual sort of ministry. People were calling him John the Baptist and John the Preacher, and some even thought he might be the Messiah. Although, I also heard that he quickly set them straight on this account, assuring everyone with ears to hear that he was only getting them ready for the one who would soon come.
He told his listeners that while he, John, baptized with water, the one who was coming would baptize with fire. I am still uncertain as to what this means, for I have yet to see my son, the true Messiah, bring down fire on anyone. And, of course, now it seems too late. Even so, I hate to doubt John’s prediction.
Naturally, I suspected that Jesus was going off to listen to his cousin’s preaching. And I later learned through a neighbor named Myra (she and her husband had witnessed this strange event for themselves) that Jesus had actually asked John to baptize him.
“John the mighty preacher was nearly speechless,” Myra told me. “But then he said—and I swear that I am not making this up—that he was not worthy to tie Jesus’s sandals and that Jesus should be the one doing the baptizing.”
In that moment, I felt something running through me—a rush of excitement mixed with a very real fear. And I knew this was the beginning. Although I felt disappointed, I was not very surprised when Jesus did not come home that day. Myra told me that after the baptism Jesus had turned and walked away, still dripping, heading straight for the wilderness.
“I heard that John the Preacher lives in the wilderness,” she said, probably to reassure me, “and that he survives on locusts and honey.” She made a face. “Do you think your son is going to do the same?”
“Jehovah will watch over him,” I told her, concealing my concerns from her curious eyes. “He will be fine.”
For how could the mighty Jehovah allow any harm to come to his beloved Son? I remembered the times when I had fretted about something and Joseph had jokingly reminded me that God in his glory was perfectly able to send down legions of angels if necessary to protect young Jesus. And so I told myself that I need not worry as Jesus set out on his Messiah’s mission. Jehovah would watch over him then as well.
But where was Jehovah yesterday? What was he doing when the sky turned dark and my son cried out for deliverance? Where was God then?
9
THE NEXT TIME I saw my son, after he had been baptized by his cousin, he was not the same man who had walked away from Nazareth only a week before. He had a different look in his eyes. Maybe it was some sort of spiritual confidence or just pure determination, but he had definitely changed. Now, he was as kind and loving and gracious as ever when he greeted his family, but it was obvious to me that his mission here on earth had begun.
It was not long before Jesus began to teach. But his teaching was unlike anything any of us had ever heard before. And the way he could speak with such conviction and hold the attention of his listeners was truly incredible. It was as if we could not get enough of his words. Even I, his own mother, was often caught as if spellbound by his ability to speak what I knew must be truth in a completely new and profound way. Truly amazing!
And yet he was my son. I had given birth to this young man, had nourished him from my own breast, had washed, fed, and cared for him when he was too little to care for himself. And yet he was God. It was almost too much for me to contain in my small, earthly head. But my heart knew it was true.
Not long after Jesus began his ministry, my favorite sister, Sarah, who lived in the neighboring town of Cana, invited us to visit her family and cele
brate the wedding of her firstborn son. Her handsome Benjamin had been betrothed to a young woman from a fairly well-to-do family, and I am sure Sarah wanted to impress us with this match. Since I have always loved Benjamin, I was happy to go, as were my children. Even Jesus promised to meet up with us there. By now he had several faithful friends who traveled everywhere with him, soaking in all the words of his teaching as well as helping see to his needs. It was plain that my son was in good hands. Not only Jehovah’s but also those of these loyal men who clearly loved their leader.
We all know that weddings do not come cheap, but it was obvious that Sarah and her husband had spent a lot on this one. However, they had no idea how many guests the wife’s family would invite, and early in the evening poor Sarah realized they had completely run out of wine.
“Mary,” she whispered to me. “Whatever are we going to do? We will appear to be the most thoughtless of all hosts, and poor Benjamin will be shamed in front of his new in-laws.”
Feeling my sister’s pain almost as my own, I sought out Jesus. I am not even sure why—for what did I really think he could do about it? But if Joseph had been alive, I am sure I would have run to him for help in just the same way.
“Jesus!” I used my most urgent tone to address my son. “They are out of wine, and Sarah is humiliated. Is there anything you can do?”
I will never forget the way he looked at me. Almost as if I was not really his mother. “This is not our problem,” he told me with an authority that was slightly intimidating. “My time has not come yet. Do not push me, woman.”
Well, for my firstborn son to address me in such a manner was rather shocking. Not that it was rude, for I have heard other grown men use the same terms with their mothers. But it felt so impersonal, as if he was gently but firmly shoving me away from him. For some reason—almost as if some other force was at work within me—I went ahead and told the servants to go and do whatever Jesus instructed them. To this day, I wonder at my nerve, but I can only attribute it to the mighty Jehovah.
Feeling nervous but expectant, I stood nearby and watched as Jesus told the servants to fetch the large water cisterns (there were six of them altogether, and each could hold nearly thirty gallons), and then he said to fill them to the brims with water. Without questioning, the servants obeyed.
After the water cisterns were full, Jesus told the servants to dip their wine jugs into these large vats and serve the wedding guests. Well, you could tell that the servants thought this was questionable behavior, but, for some reason, they did it anyway. Perhaps Jehovah was at work in them as well.
You should have seen those servants’ faces—my face too, for that matter—when they poured out the water that had been miraculously changed into wine. And not just any ordinary wine, but the finest wine any of us had ever tasted.
“Why has the groom saved the best wine for last?” the bride’s father demanded as he held up a cup and sniffed its bouquet. “This is much better than that cheap stuff you were serving us earlier.”
Sarah looked at me with surprised but grateful eyes, and the wedding celebration continued late into the night and on into the next day. Was I amazed by the incredible miracle my son had performed? Well, of course; who would not be? But the main thing that kept me awake that night was the stinging memory of the way Jesus had looked at me, the way he had called me “woman” instead of “Mother.” Almost as if he were dismissing me altogether, as if I was no longer his mother and someone worthy of respect and honor. And that is when I knew—I knew to the depths of my soul—something between us had changed. Something was separating us, like an invisible wedge that would go deeper and deeper, slowly driving us apart. And I believe that wedge was the Lord God Almighty. I was not sure why he would do this to me.
It became clearer to me, as time passed and Jesus’s ministry and followers increased, that Jehovah, more than ever before, was truly manifest in this man. Jesus was not only the Son of God, but he and God were connected somehow—they were one. I began to realize that when you looked upon my son, you were looking upon the Lord God. Indeed, Jehovah had come to live and dwell among us in the form of Jesus. But as a mother who felt she was losing her firstborn son, this was a bitter taste of things to come.
Perhaps this was even the first slice of Simeon’s prophecy, the sword that would pierce my soul, for I loved Jesus as much as—no, more than—ever. I loved him with a love that was fierce and perhaps even somewhat protective. As if I, a mere earthly woman, might somehow protect the mighty Jehovah. But I believe I still thought this. And God in his gracious glory was determined to put me in my proper place. And so he did. So he did.
My other children were quite stunned by what was happening with their eldest brother. Repeatedly they asked me how this was even possible. How had their own flesh-and-blood brother lived among them and then suddenly transformed himself into the Messiah? Their doubt and skepticism was written all over their faces, and my answers never seemed to satisfy them. Even when I quoted to them from the old prophets, such as Ezekiel and Isaiah (predictions of the Messiah Joseph had taught me back when we lived in Egypt and had time for such long discussions), still they were unconvinced.
My sons were particularly skeptical of their brother’s ministry. And one day, James, Joses, and Judas drew me into their concerns. Simon, the youngest, wisely remained silent.
“I have heard that some people think Jesus is crazy,” James said.
“That is right,” Joses agreed. “There is talk that he lives like an animal, that he does not take care of himself and thinks nothing of breaking the Sabbath.”
“And some even say he teaches cannibalism,” James said, “that he tells his followers they must eat his flesh and drink his blood.”
I shuddered but said nothing.
“He is in great danger,” Judas said, as if he was actually concerned for his half brother’s welfare. “He is very close to going over the edge, Mother.”
“We should go to him,” James urged. “We should warn him to be more careful.”
“And to take care of himself,” Joses added. “Perhaps he needs a rest.”
Their words were like thorns caught in my clothing that day; they poked and stabbed at me until I was nearly sick with worry for Jesus. That was how I let my sons talk me into going to Galilee to see him.
“You are his mother,” James said as we set out on our mission to rescue my firstborn son. “Jesus must listen to you.”
“We can talk him into coming home for a while,” Joses said. “He needs to take a break from all his traveling and speaking.”
I could tell they were concerned for Jesus, and I knew they really loved him. But something about our trip did not feel right. Even so, I could not quite put my finger on it. And their words combined with their strength of unity were persuasive.
It was not difficult to locate Jesus once we reached the small town in Galilee. We simply followed the crowd. They were clustered around a house where we were informed that Jesus was inside, reportedly teaching his disciples and others. But I remained outside as I asked one of Jesus’s followers to go in and get him.
“Please tell Jesus that his mother and brothers are here to see him,” I said in a voice filled with maternal authority. And my three other sons stood behind me, nodding. As I waited I tried to decide what I would say to Jesus. I thought he should be aware of our concern and listen to our warning. Perhaps he would even agree to come home.
But we waited and waited, and Jesus did not come out. Finally the man I had spoken to earlier emerged, but his face bore a frown.
“Where is my son?” I demanded, feeling slightly aggravated by our long wait in the noonday sun.
“Jesus has sent you a message,” the man said.
“What is it?”
This poor man looked clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. First he shuffled his feet, then he cleared his throat, and finally he spoke. “Jesus said, ‘Who is my mother? Who are my brothers?’”
; “What?” James demanded. “He knows who we are—”
The man held up his hand to stop him. “Jesus also said that whoever does the will of his Father in heaven—those people are his mothers and brothers and sisters.”
In other words, my eldest son had absolutely no interest in seeing his own family. It was as if we were strangers to him. Or worse, since he was continually surrounded by virtual strangers, we were even lower than that in his eyes. Or so it seemed.
So, there you see, Jehovah did put me in my place. Thoroughly humbled by my son’s lack of reception, I turned away and began to walk toward home. But my sons were incensed that their own flesh and blood should treat them, and particularly me, in such a fashion. I was not paying close attention to their angry words. I was too caught up in a grief all my own, but I could tell by their tone of righteous indignation that they talked of little else for quite some time.
As I walked toward Nazareth, I felt that Jehovah was speaking to my heart, gently correcting me in regard to my eldest son—or rather the reaction I felt toward my son. Feeling the burning conviction of God’s Spirit, I walked along in quiet repentance, my head bowed as I silently confessed my sin to Jehovah.
My sin, I knew, was my motherly pride. I actually felt that I was somehow responsible, if only in a small way, for Jesus’s successful ministry—as if I should receive some kind of glory or honor. How it pains me even now to remember how I honestly believed this back then. What a silly, shallow woman I was! I still wonder sometimes why Jehovah chose someone like me to be the mother of his Son. I am so unworthy.
But I was not stupid, and I fully realized in that moment how pride truly does precede the fall. And so, for the sake of Jesus even more than for myself, I had no desire to stumble just then. I knew I had a responsibility to keep a pure heart not only before the Lord Jehovah, my God, but also before my son, the Holy One of Israel. And with this realization, I had tears of contrition streaming down both cheeks. So much so that I was unable to see clearly and finally had to stop walking. Along the side of the road, I stood and sobbed, looking to the heavens and longing for forgiveness.
Three Days: A Mother's Story Page 5