My sons, unaware of my heartache, were quite a ways ahead before they noticed that I was no longer walking with them.
“See!” James said as the three of them hurried back to my side. Then he used the edge of my veil to tenderly dab my wet cheeks. “Jesus is a disrespectful son! He has hurt our mother.”
“He is tearing this family apart!” Joses exclaimed. “Something should be done about it.”
I stopped crying, and, standing up straight, I looked at the three of them. I endeavored to give all of them my sternest expression, something I had always reserved for only the worst of childhood offenses but had not needed to use for years.
“Quiet!” I finally said in a loud voice. “Be silent, my sons.”
They looked surprised, but, seeing that I had attained their attention, I continued in a quiet but very intense voice. “I cannot force you to believe that your brother truly is God’s own Son or persuade you to accept him as the real Messiah, but I will not abide your slander of him for one more moment. Do you understand?”
Apparently they did, for they remained quite somber for the rest of the journey home. As I walked I continued silently praying to Jehovah. I thanked him for his correction on my soul, and I asked him to show all my children the truth about their eldest brother, to help them accept that the Lord God Almighty had ordained this event since the beginning of time and that no amount of skepticism or complaining could alter that fact.
From time to time I have noticed small things, like a nod of understanding from my oldest daughter, Hannah, or maybe I will catch Joses actually quoting his oldest brother—these little things give me a glimmer of hope for Jesus’s siblings. But, for the most part, my grown children, like the majority of my neighbors in Nazareth, are about as faithful as a millstone when it comes to accepting Jesus as Messiah.
Still, I cannot help but wonder what they are thinking now. I am sure my children have received word of their brother’s tragic death, since they are still here for Passover and all of Jerusalem hums with the news. Are they sorry they did not treat him better during his last years on earth? Do they wish they had done things differently?
This weary mother’s heart cannot even begin to figure out such things on the second sorrowful day of our great loss. And I have long since learned there is nothing I can do about such things anyway. So once again—as I have done so many times before—I will pray. I will place my other children in God’s hands. Only Jehovah can convince them of the truth.
10
MOST OF MY PRIDE was put to death on the road home from Galilee that day. Now, I am not perfect, and I still have my moments when I must remind myself that I am only an earthen vessel—and not a very lovely one, at that. But something inside me was greatly changed that day. As a result, I kept a distance from my son’s ministry for quite a while. It seemed the right thing to do at the time. Perhaps it was Jehovah’s spirit guiding me—that still, small voice I have come to respect and love. But I knew I should stay away for a spell. And so I did.
Even so, I would ask anyone who had seen him to tell me everything they could remember. “What did he say?” I would inquire eagerly. “What did he teach?” And it was during this time when I felt myself becoming like a child who was hungry for truth and knowledge. And after what seemed a long period of waiting, I finally knew that the time had come. I was ready. Ready to go and sit among the hundreds of others, just another believing face in the crowd, eager to hear and learn from my Lord. For that is how I had begun to think of him—as my Lord. And this renaming of my son brought great peace and comfort to my heart. Indeed, things were changing in me!
How my spirit rejoiced on the day I felt that still, small voice telling me that it was time—that I was free to go and hear him. I already knew that Jesus was up near the Sea of Galilee, and I quickly packed a few things and set out on the road. As I traveled I met others who were going to hear him as well. People from as far away as Jerusalem had heard about his teachings. Many had left jobs and even families to journey up here just to see him.
“How long have you known of Jesus?” a young woman about the age of my Hannah asked me.
“I am still just getting to know my Lord,” I told her. And this was not necessarily untrue.
“Have you heard that he can heal the sick?” another woman asked.
I simply nodded and listened as my fellow travelers spoke of the marvelous things Jesus had done. Without revealing my relationship to Jesus, I took in their comments, hiding each word like a tender morsel in my heart. Then I stopped in Cana to visit my sister Sarah, who had been recently widowed. I talked with her awhile, expressing my sorrow at her loss. Then I told her where I was going, and Sarah, still amazed at the wine miracle, decided she would join me on this pilgrimage. I was surprised but truly happy to have her company. Even so, I did ask her not to reveal our identity to those we traveled with, and she agreed.
“It is much simpler this way,” I explained.
“But you should be proud of your son, Mary,” she said as we walked a short ways behind the rest of the crowd.
“It is complicated,” I tried to explain. “He is no ordinary son.”
“Well, I always knew he was very special,” she said. I had to smile to myself at this, since I think Sarah, like most of our family and neighbors, never suspected there was anything very unusual about Jesus before his ministry began.
“And he has always loved his aunt Sarah,” I told her.
“Can you believe we are doing this?” she said in a tone of voice that reminded me of when we were both girls, journeying to Jerusalem for Passover. “I am so thankful that our children are grown and married. It is wonderful to have this freedom to be able to go and see him.”
I had to agree with her. There was something very invigorating about being out on the road on a fine summer day, traveling with others who were excited about hearing the powerful words of Jesus. I could hear bits of conversations. Some said, “He is the new king, come to deliver us.” Others still thought he was a prophet. Some were unsure but curious to see him for themselves.
“This is so exciting!” Sarah said as we entered Capernaum, the place where we had heard Jesus was staying. And it was exhilarating. A sense of energy filled the air, similar to the power you experience during a lightning storm, only not as frightening. People were everywhere, filling the streets and every open space. Young people, old people, sick people, and lots of children. All had left their homes, some coming from as far off as Gaza, to descend upon this small fishing town to hear Jesus teach. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before.
The next morning Sarah and I sat mesmerized among the hordes of listeners as Jesus preached from a high position situated on the crest of a small mountain. And, truly, it was as if the Lord God Jehovah himself was speaking—Jesus’s words were that powerful and that profound! Perhaps what touched me most the first time I sat and listened to him speak was when he gave what I later considered the “Blessed” sermon. Of course, I know his words are for everyone, but somehow I felt he was speaking directly to me that day. His promises were like a soothing balm for my aching heart.
“Blessed are you when you realize you are spiritually impoverished,
for you will have the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when you mourn,
for you shall receive comfort.
Blessed are you when you are humble and meek,
for you shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are you when you hunger and thirst for
righteousness,
for you will be satisfied.
Blessed are you when you show mercy,
for you will be shown mercy.
Blessed are you when your heart is pure,
for you shall see God.
Blessed are you when you make peace,
for you will be called God’s own children.
Blessed are you when you are persecuted for my sake,
for the kingdom of heaven will be yours.”
>
And on and on he continued throughout the day. Now, if he had been a mere man, or even just a prophet, I imagine the crowd would have thinned eventually. People would have tired of listening and simply gone home or in pursuit of some other diversion. But as the day progressed, the crowd only grew larger and larger, until there must have been thousands.
“He is astonishing,” said a woman to my right. “He must truly be the Son of God.”
I nodded, then turned my eyes back to Jesus. But for a brief moment I felt a ripple of fear running through my soul. Was that pride I was experiencing as I watched my son preaching? I had so hoped to be done with that by now. But, upon more careful examination, I realized that it was only a feeling of awe—just pure and simple awe. His words were that inspiring!
Even as I wait here, knowing that his lifeless body lies in the tomb, I am still inspired by his words. His death does not change the truth he spoke. I only wish I could understand why Jehovah has allowed him to be silenced like this. To me, it seems all wrong. But then I am not the one who controls the universe. I know I must trust Jehovah in his wisdom. I must believe that good will arise out of evil. Please, God, help my unbelief.
I glance around the room where we are still gathered. There is some comfort in not being alone on this dark day, and I can see that others are struggling in their spirits, perhaps even more than I. This has been a very long day for everyone. God, in his mercy, has shrouded the sunlight for most of the day. But I can tell by the dusky light now filtering through the clouds on the western horizon that this second day of waiting is drawing to an end. I do not know what we thought might happen here today. But I can tell that discouragement is growing with the darkness.
Simon Peter seems the most lost. His eyes are draped in sadness, and this usually robust and fiery fisherman appears broken and weary and very old today. John told me earlier that Peter is grieving deeply, not only over the loss of his Lord, but also for the fact that he denied knowing Jesus three times yesterday.
“But Jesus told him it would happen just that way,” John explained to me in a hushed voice. “Peter should not be so hard on himself.”
I nodded. “I think we are all examining our hearts right now.”
I knew there were no words I could say to Peter, nothing I could do to ease his pain. But I paused on my way going outside, and, placing my hand on one of his broad shoulders, I looked directly into his eyes. I wanted to tell him that he must know that Jesus has already forgiven him. How could Jesus, the one who taught us so much about forgiveness, not forgive his dear friend? But I also knew that, in the same way a fisherman shakes off the spray from the sea, Peter would only shake off my words. Even so, I hope the look in my eyes conveyed my son’s mercy to him.
I remember the first time I met Simon Peter. Jesus had already gathered a dozen good men who had left jobs and homes and families to remain by his side. And I knew that these men were my son’s closest and dearest friends. Almost always with him, they heard much more of Jesus’s teachings than the rest of us. I was later told that the purpose of their intense training was to enable them to go out and spread the good news to others.
I am not sure what will happen now. How can they go out and tell people how God’s Son said and did so many miraculous things and then tell them he was killed? It does not seem a good ending for this story. And I know his disciples are frustrated.
When I first met Jesus’s new friends, I was somewhat surprised that they seemed such ordinary men. I do not know, I suppose I expected to see some priests or more highly educated or influential men in the bunch. But then I was reminded of how Jehovah works and the way he reveals himself to the lowly. Why, is not that exactly how he chose me, and even my dear Joseph? And so, as I got to know these men, I could see why my son picked them for his most intimate friends. They are honest men with good hearts, and I think that any one of them would have laid down his life for my son. Of course, he would not allow that. Even when Peter attempted to defend Jesus at the time of his arrest, Jesus put a stop to it.
“There was a lot going on at once,” John told me. “But in the scuffle, Peter grabbed a sword and sliced off the ear of the high priest’s servant.”
“Oh!” I glanced over to where Peter was sitting with his face to the wall. I knew how committed to my son he was, and I could believe he would do something that violent if he thought it would help matters. Poor Peter.
“Jesus told us that everyone who takes up the sword will perish by the sword,” John continued. “And then he healed the servant’s ear just as good as new.”
I nodded. Yes, I could imagine my son doing that. He had such a compassionate heart when it came to suffering. I vaguely wonder how many people he has healed during these past three years. It was almost a daily thing—and it was not unusual for many to be healed at one time. I still feel a sense of wonder to consider all the miracles Jesus has done, but in some ways I think we all simply came to accept such actions as perfectly normal. I am sure that we actually began to expect the miracles—perhaps we even took them for granted.
I bow my head now and remind myself that I must never take any of this for granted. I must never allow myself to think that what happened here, Jesus’s ministry and his teaching and miracles, was not a big deal. Indeed, it was a very big deal. And, I suspect, it is not finished yet.
11
THE WOMEN, LED BY Mary of Magdala, are serving dinner now. I offered to help, but once again they told me not to bother myself. I try not to look too uncomfortable as they wait on me. But I do remember Jesus’s teachings on servants. He said that we all need to serve each other, and I have always been most happy to serve. Indeed, it is much more pleasing to me to serve than to be served. But this is not a day of comfort.
I watch Mary’s face as she serves. Such sadness! I know she loved my son wholeheartedly. And everyone knows she is a woman with deep passion and strong feelings. Some say she wears her heart on her sleeve, but I think they simply do not understand the complexity of this woman.
I still remember the first time I met her. It was not long after my son delivered her from some very disturbing spirits that had plagued her for years. Some call them demons; some call them unclean spirits. I am no expert on such things, but I do wonder if Mary’s tender heart didn’t place her in a position to be victimized by such things. For once you know her, you can see that she is a woman of intense emotions. Like an artist or a poet, she sees and experiences life on a level some of us can only imagine. And so it is my personal belief that these strong emotions and compulsions could easily overpower her to the point where she lost control of her life. Fortunately for her, that is when Jesus came along and drove them out of her.
“I can never repay your son for what he has done for me,” she told me when she discovered I was Jesus’s mother.
I nodded. “None of us can.”
“Even you?” she said, her beautiful dark eyes opened wide in surprise.
I smiled. “Even me.”
“I have decided to devote my entire life to him,” she told me.
“As have I.”
Then she took my hand in hers and squeezed it. “Then we are like sisters.”
“Sisters in our Lord.”
“Mary and Mary.”
And so we have been like sisters. I have loved this woman from the beginning. Of course, I must admit that I was a little intimidated by her at first, for it was plain to see, by her expensive clothing and refined speech, that she was a woman of considerable means. But when I looked into her eyes, I saw gentleness and mercy there. I saw wisdom and understanding—the kind that is conceived out of great pain. And I loved her even more.
If Jesus were just an ordinary man and not the Son of God, Mary of Magdala is exactly the sort of woman I would have wished to become my daughter-in-law. She has the kind of intelligence and depth of spirit I admire. Even as I watch her serving here today, a woman who comes from a wealthy home where she is used to being served and waited upon, I see h
er humility of spirit, her thoughtful ways, and I am inspired.
I know she loved my son deeply, and I think there was even a time when she was in love with my son in the same way that I was in love with my Joseph. But, to be fair, we were all in love with Jesus. How could we not be? To look in his eyes was to see God the Father. His presence alone brought comfort, grace, healing, mercy . . . to know him was simply to love him. And then, of course, some have the capacity to love more than others.
But Jesus never took advantage of Mary’s passionate love for him, not in the way a human man would. And even as he allowed the various women to minister to his needs, he always maintained his position as teacher and Lord. There was never any misunderstanding in that regard. And I must respect Mary for this. She is an honorable woman. And, in some ways, she even reminds me of my cousin Elizabeth.
Dear, dear Elizabeth. I was so saddened to hear of her death several years ago. Of course, she was quite elderly and was preceded in death by her husband, Zacharias. But I felt bad that she passed on before actually seeing the incredible ministry of both of our sons. How she would have rejoiced to learn of how her son baptized my son down in the Jordan River!
However, my regrets quickly turned into thankfulness when I heard of the vicious murder of her son John. No mother should be forced to witness such spiteful brutality, not even from a distance. Even now I shudder to remember the story. But, in light of what has happened to my own son, I force myself to consider John’s execution once more. My young cousin’s troubles began when he rightly accused Herod, our supposed leader, for having taken his brother’s wife, Herodias, as his own.
Three Days: A Mother's Story Page 6